


knew from the first

by xintong



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Excessive Cliches, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Oblivious Lance (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Keith (Voltron), Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-01-30 08:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 77,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12649791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xintong/pseuds/xintong
Summary: When Pidge mentions one day that they think their brother is dating a vampire, Lance just laughs it off. The last year of high school may be full of surprises and obstacles, from college dance auditions to senior prom, but vampires are definitely not part of it, Lance is sure of that.Funny how the universe bites back at him to prove him wrong.





	1. turtle neck conspiracies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely @swordiris for inspiring this project, and the wonderful @shitpilot who helped me work out character concept details. I'm really lucky to have met you two. Title from "I Like Me Better" by Lauv, Ruhde remix.
> 
> Possible triggers in this chapter: there's a scene of perceived stalking beginning at "Tonight though, an unsettling feeling snares his gut..." and ending at "Hey kid, you forgot to pay." Please skip if you're not comfortable/don't feel safe with the content.

A lot of life seems to be filled with waiting. Waiting for the eggs to fry. Waiting for the coffee to fill. Waiting for the light to change. Waiting for the bus to come. Waiting for the judging panel to call your name, for something to distract you from all the butterflies ricocheting in your veins. 

Waiting.

“Guys, I think my brother’s dating a vampire.”

Well, okay.

Not quite the distraction Lance was waiting for, but he’ll take it.

“Finally watched enough conspiracy theories, Pidget?” he asks, and is surprised at the steadiness of his voice despite how hard his lungs are working to intake air right now. After over a decade of friendship, Lance has heard a lot of strange things from Pidge, but this might just be the kicker.

“Lance, this is serious,” Pidge says, hands on their hips, which is how Lance knows that yes, they’re being very serious. “You know what my brother came home wearing yesterday? A fucking turtle neck. You know how much he hates turtle necks.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him—”

“And when I asked him why he was wearing it, he was all like, ‘it’s for fashion, Pidge, turtle necks are the new trend,’ which is how I  _know_  he’s bullshitting me cause Matt, trying to be trendy? He came out of the womb wearing crocs and a fanny pack. He’s the opposite of trendy!”

“Damn you don’t have to roast him like that,” Lance says, feeling somewhat mortally wounded himself. Hunk, sitting a couple feet away down the hall crunching out calculus practice problems, sets his pen aside.

“Assuming you’re implying that he’s wearing a turtle neck to hide bite marks, he could be hiding something else like a rash,” Hunk says, to which Lance mutters “or a shit ton of love bites” under his breath. Pidge wrinkles their nose at him in disgust.

“Lance,  _ew_ , I did not need that mental image. And no Hunk, he wouldn’t get all antsy like that if it was just a dumb ol’ rash. Therefore the only logical explanation here is that my dear, naive brother has fallen for the clutches of a bloodsucker.”

Hunk levels Pidge with a look of skepticism, the one he reserves for when they’re debating statistical proofs or gravitational field equations. Nerdy homework stuff. Lance feels laughter bubbling inside him as he watches, because he can’t believe they’re actually dissecting the possibility of Matt dating a vampire like a physics question.

“You got any other evidence?”

Pidge rubs their hands together, glasses glinting beneath the fluorescent lights. “All right, hear me out. Vampires get burned by sunlight, right? Well, yesterday when we were walking around Garrison Park, Matt’s boyfriend kept ducking under the shade even though it was thirty-seven degrees outside, and the sun wasn’t even shining through the clouds. Shady AF behavior, if you ask me.”

“ _Shady_ ,” Lance snorts. 

“And then at lunch, he ordered a steak rare, which — first of all, that’s kind of disgusting — and second of all, it means he likes to eat things bloody!”

Hunk crosses his arms, not convinced. “UV rays are still harmful even when the sun’s not out, Pidge, and that’s true for everyone, not just vampires. Plus, a lot of people eat meat rare to medium rare.”

“How would you explain his abnormally sharp canines when I watched him chew then? And the fact that his hair is partially white.”

“Bad dentist job. Premature aging,” Hunk easily volleys back. 

“No, it’s like this tuft on the middle of his head.” Pidge fluffs their bangs up into a bunch to demonstrate. “And I’m pretty sure he didn’t just dye it to be edgy.”

“Could be due to stress,” Hunk postulates. “I mean, doesn’t he go to MIT with your brother? It’s gotta be tough in there.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like Matt came back with white hair, though he does have a bad case of raccoon eyes now.”

“Speak for yourself, Pidget.” Lance grins, reaching up to pinch Pidge’s cheek just below the dark circles that are permanently printed beneath their eyes by this point. Pidge bats his hand away, scowl morphing into a triumphant smirk midway through, and Lance knows they’ve figured out the last piece of evidence needed to condemn Matt’s allegedly vampiric boyfriend.

“He rejected my dad’s garlic bread during dinner.”

Hunk utters a scandalized gasp. “He rejected Papa Holt’s famous garlic bread?! Okay, you’ve convinced the jury. He’s a vampire for sure.”

“Guys, seriously?” Lance bursts out laughing, hand over mouth and shoulders shaking. “You actually think he’s a vampire just because he won’t eat garlic bread?”

“Garlic bread is sacred Lance, especially Mr. Holt’s,” Hunk says solemnly. “Anyone who rejects such a gift can’t be human. You gotta get me that recipe, Pidge. My soul won’t rest until I know the secret ingredient.”

Pidge shakes their head. “No can do, Hunk, sorry. My dad hoards that recipe the way he hoards refrigerated peas. He’ll never give it up.” They smile sympathetically as Hunk heaves a defeated sigh, body slumping sideways onto the floor, before turning to Lance.

“Anyway, I  _am_  legitimately suspicious about Matt and his new boyfriend hiding something from me, but I doubt it’s anything supernatural. Hunk and I were just joking around to distract you, cause you’re definitely psyching yourself out right now. Did it work?”

Lance blinks at them, puzzled, before realizing that — during the whole time they and Hunk had been deliberating the vampire boyfriend conspiracy — he had forgotten all about his ship-wrecked nerves, moored on the edge of panic.

“Yeah, it did,” Lance says, somewhat amazed. He presses his palm to his abdomen where the butterflies had been. They’re still there, buzzing more like demon wasps than gentle butterflies, and gradually growing stronger. “But now I’m getting worried again.”

Hunk groans. “Laaaance, you’ve practiced a bajillion times. You’ll do great!” He inches his way across the floor in a worm-like fashion until he reaches the bench Lance is sitting on, beaming up at him encouragingly. “Razzle dazzle them.”

Lance flickers a smile.

“Thanks Hunk. Both of you. You guys really didn’t have to come all the way here with me.”

Juilliard was in the heart of the city after all, a little over an hour’s commute out of Garrison Heights. Pidge and Hunk had gotten up at 6AM on a Sunday to accompany Lance to his first audition, pep-talking him the whole way through and making sure he ate at least some of the breakfast his mom had packed him. Lance just barely managed to swallow the food down, his stomach threatening to empty into his lungs with every breath, his anxiety always on the verge of spilling out.

 _Think of the ocean, mijo,_ he heard his mom’s voice echo in the hallow of his head when he finally arrived, passing through the gilded doors and into the queuing hall where dozens of other dancers stretched and warmed up alike.  _Remember how it always lifts you up before you drown._

_Trust yourself._

Pidge pokes his forehead with their fingertip, grounding him from drifting further away with his thoughts. “Shut up, of course we have to be here for your audition. That way you won’t forget us when you’re famous.”

“Sorry, new phone who dis?” Lance jokes, and Pidge throws their arms up in mock indignation.

“Unbelievable, when’s the next train back?”

“Nooooo, Pidgey don’t leave me.” Lance pulls his friend into a hug, wrapping around their smaller frame like a bear cub. He doesn’t notice he’s shaking until he feels Pidge’s firm weight steadying him, hugging him back just as tightly. They motion for Hunk to pile in, too.

“Really, thank you guys for being here,” Lance says, voice tight around the knot in his throat. Between Pidge’s bony shoulder and Hunk’s familiar sweater, he’s grateful they can’t see the tears burning against his eyes.

He knows he wouldn’t have survived the morning without them, watching the dancers being called into the auditioning room one by one, their names resounding like a gunshot. Those still left behind would flitter towards the viewing window each time, their bare feet a restless murmur against the tiles. Lance would stay, stretching out his limbs, rehearsing the choreography in his head over and over again until he burned out.

“You’re getting into this school, Lance,” Pidge says, confident and assuring. “They’ll be making the worst mistake of their lives if they turn you away.”

“And even if they do make that mistake, we know how hard you worked for this, and we’re beyond proud of you.” Hunk gives them both a squeeze, pushing a laugh out of Lance as Pidge is lifted clean off their feet, flailing and griping.

He feels lighter, talking to his two best friends. The storm inside him clearing. The ocean lifting him up.

“Lance Méndez?”

.

.

.

 

To anyone who will listen, Mama likes to tell the story of when he first started dancing — how they had passed by a violinist on a sunlit street, and he broke from her arms to chase the melody.

He had only just turned two — two buttery arms, two clumsy feet — yet his limbs hooked onto the rhythm and slipped into the refrain. Like water, like breathing,  _“you learned how to dance before you could even walk properly.”_

So, in a half sort of way, Lance believes in fate.

 

.

.

.

 

There’s comfort in stitching his ballet shoes. There’s comfort in doing something so familiar, molded into muscle memory by years of practice. Measure the elastic — 2, 3, 4 — fold and cut, then wrap just so. Sewing the ends onto the inside lip, rows of neat sutures, criss-crossing like a second skin around his ankles. He hums as he arranges them, the motions meditative and instinctual. 

“Lance, how’d it go?”

Allura’s voice finds him as he applies the finishing touches, tucking his sewing kit back into his bag, ready for tonight’s practice. He’s stretched out on the dance floor, legs spread wide in a split to warm up his hip flexors and spine. He straightens up when Allura kneels across from him, periwinkle eyes anxious and alight, searching his face for any sign.

Lance casts his eyes downwards, lips a somber crescent. He hears Allura’s soft, heartbroken gasp.

“Oh no, Lance, I’m so sorry.”

Lance keeps his gaze lowered, but he can’t help the twitch of his lips. When he looks back up, the charade collapses, his mouth breaking around a wide, toothy grin.

“Just kidding, I passed. I made it through the first cut!”

“Oh my god, Lance! You little shit!” Allura shrieks, punching Lance’s arm as he falls over laughing. “You actually had me worried there for a sec.” She clutches onto the fabric of her leotard above her heart, a shaky, exasperated laugh escaping her. She reaches over and pulls Lance into her arms for a bone-crushing hug. “Congrats, love. I’m so,  _so_  proud of you.”

“Thanks, Lu,” Lance says, tucking his chin into the curve of her shoulder, smiling contently.

He’s known Allura since he was twelve, so she’s practically family to him at this point. He had the biggest puppy crush on her when they first met: Allura was two years older and the prettiest girl Lance had ever seen. Not only that, her ballet technique was effortlessly polished, with a sense of musicality wise beyond her years, and he admired her immensely for it.

After multiple disastrous flirting attempts — and realizing that Allura will never be interested in guys — it’s safe to say Lance’s crush didn’t evolve into anything more than what it was. Instead, Allura became one of his closest friends, a mentor in both ballet and life, especially when Lance found himself struggling with his own sexuality. She and his older sister Teresa became best friends, too, and Lance vividly remembers the weekend sleepovers where the two of them would paint his nails and teach him about makeup as they gossiped over high school drama. 

Allura’s attending Columbia now, pursuing International Relations in her late father’s footsteps. Yet, in spite of her hectic schedule, she still found hours every week to go over Lance’s audition routine with him. Lance passing Juilliard’s first cut means almost as much to her as it does for him.

“You know it’s just the first audition, though. I still have to get through the final four rounds in February,” Lance reminds her, pulling away. Allura scoffs, a teasing lilt in her voice. 

“Lance, where did that ego of yours go? I expected insufferable bragging; this humbleness doesn’t suit you.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously I’m going to be a star, but I’m just saying.”

“Hmm, still not quite right.”

“Allura, you should know by now that I was born to be the next Mikhail Baryshnikov, the Barack Obama of ballet, a pioneering artist of the contemporary form—”

“All right, tone it down now,” Allura says, giggling into her hand. Lance huffs, feigning hurt.

“I’m humble, she complains. I applaud my own brilliance, and she tells me to tone it down. My dear Allura,” he begins the familiar melody that has Allura groaning in horror. “You will never satisfied—”

“No, not this song again, please—”

“—She will never be satisfied, satisfied!” A voice joins in, blending into perfect harmony with Lance’s. A woman in five inch Saint Laurent ankle boots sashays in, flipping her sunglasses over a halo of beach blonde hair. 

“Nyma!” Lance cheers, scrambling up to tackle her into a hug. Nyma catches him and spins him around, a feat made easy by her six feet height and additional heels.

“Lance, I missed you!” she coos, nuzzling his cheek before dropping him back down to earth. Her gaze drifts to the velvet blue band around his neck, and her thumb lifts to examine it appreciatively. “Is this a new choker? It’s so cute!”

“Thanks! I got it today to treat myself.”

Nyma’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, that means you passed your audition right?” At Lance’s confirming nod, she lets out a shriek to rival Allura’s. “ _Oh my god I knew it!!_  Lance, that’s amazing, congratulations! We have to celebrate this week.”

“Careful Nyma, he’s going to ask for a parade float and even you can’t afford that.” Allura walks over, winding her arm around Nyma’s waist to reel her down for a greeting kiss. Nyma smiles into it.

“Hey babe, you know I can afford anything for the light of my life.”

“Famous last words, dear,” Allura hums, kissing Nyma again. A breathy, delighted laugh slips between their lips as Nyma scoops her up, too.

Lance steps back to let them have their moment, knowing how much Allura missed her girlfriend while she was away in France for a business trip. Nyma’s been a model since high school, and gets called to foreign places often for magazine gigs and catwalks. Her popularity and career have been soaring lately, which is of course, fantastic, but it also means less and less time at home.

Watching Allura and Nyma, Lance wishes he had something like that. A relationship so full of love and trust, despite all odds.

 _There you go again Lance, always wanting more. Talk about never being satisfied._ He smiles self-deprecatingly as he finishes the last of his stretches, spacing out while the rest of the students trickle in.

Some sit beside him to ask about his day, his audition, the ones he grew up with like Millie and Noah. Coran, Allura’s godfather and current director of the studio, bursts into tears when Lance tells him the news, and makes a whole deal out of it in front of the class. Everyone flocks around to congratulate him then, until the pianist and Mistress Ryner arrive, signaling the start of practice.

The seventy year old instructor is one of Lance’s favorites, graceful as ever despite her age. Her lines are sharp and beautiful as she demonstrates each movement, guiding them through the evening’s lesson.

“I miss Tea, when is she coming home?” Allura asks as they settle into place along the bar. Lance shrugs, rolling his ankle one last time before the music starts.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to drag her away from the beaches of San Diego. She hasn’t even bought a plane ticket home for the holidays yet.” He dips into fourth position plié, flowing his arms through to arabesque, just as Mistress Ryner instructed. Allura mirrors the motion, brows knitting disapprovingly at Lance’s news.

“How rude. Her best friend misses her dreadfully and she won’t even come home?”

“You? What about me, her own flesh and blood?”

Practice goes by without a hitch, everyone extra focused with the annual Christmas performance approaching. It’s the conventional  _Nutcracker_ , but this year Lance is playing the role of the Prince, alongside Allura’s reprising role as the Sugar Plum Fairy. It’s his first starring part, and Lance will be damned if he doesn’t deliver it flawlessly.

“Sure you don’t need a ride, Lance?” Allura asks at the end of practice, gathering up her duffel bag. She walks over to cradle his face, smoothing the hair on the back of his head.

“Luuu, I’ll be fine,” Lance whines, wiggling out of her hold. She can be such a mothering hen sometimes.

“Babe, let him go,” Nyma says, smiling fondly. “You can’t treat him like a twelve year old forever.”

“Yeah, I’m seventeen, a dancing queen.”

Allura sighs, shaking her head. “All right, I see I’m outnumbered here. But you’re texting me as soon as you’re back home safe, okay?”

“Mmhmm, love you too, Lu, Nyma. See you guys tomorrow!” Lance blows a kiss at them as he exits, setting off briskly in order to catch the bus to the subway station.

It’s already dark outside, nearing 8PM. Early November is freezing this year, and the winds have been obnoxiously harsh as of late. Lance bundles the scarf around his neck, wishing he had a warmer one that wasn’t threadbare from use. He would knit a new one himself if he only had the time.

He drops by the nearby 7-11 to pick up something warm to drink, the familiar store clerk Kevin ringing him up cheerfully. When he checks the time, he notices that he’s running a bit late, so he opts for the shorter route along a few back alleys. It’s a sketchier walk, but the area is known to be a relatively safe section of the city, so Lance doesn’t think much of it.

Tonight though, an unsettling feeling snares his gut as he starts walking through the normally familiar path. Lance tries to ignore it, chalking it up to leftover adrenaline or the eerie shadows thrown by a few broken street lights in need of replacement. Whatever it is, he quickly drains his hot chocolate and crumples the cup into the trash, picking up the pace. He’s seen enough episodes of Law & Order SVU to be on the alert, that’s for sure. A healthy dose of paranoia is good.

When he’s made it back onto the main street, his muscles loosen up a tad, but the feeling of being watched, followed, doesn’t leave him. It’s giving him goosebumps, making him frantically rub his arms for both warmth and comfort. 

“Get it together, Lancey-Lance, it’s probably nothing,” he tells himself, breath stuttering like a ghost in the cold. He pulls out his earphones so that he can hear his surroundings better, above all the blood rushing into his head. Funnily enough, his overactive brain starts to imagine what Pidge brought up this morning: about make-believe monsters like vampires. There's no way those exist, Lance reminds himself. Creatures like that are just silly myths, born from the dark ages when people were bored and confused bloated corpses for undead bloodsuckers. They're not real and never will be.

A kidnapper or a murderer, on the other hand, are very much real and terrifying. Lance shifts his gaze down at the pavement, just as a precaution to see if there are any shadows following his.

When he sees the black, looming shape of a figure stretched out close behind, his heart leaps into his throat.

“Holyfuckholyfuck  _holy_   _fuck,_ " Lance whispers in a panic, whipping his head back up. How long has that been there? Have they been following him this whole time? Images of kidnapping reports, rape victims, and all sorts of other gore instantly crowd his mind, fogging his vision and thoughts. He breaks into a speed walk, long legs limbering up to a jog.

There are no cars on this street, and no other people strolling around either. It’s all dark and quiet aside from Lance and whoever the fuck is following him. And no, it’s not just his overactive imagination. Lance is positive he’s being followed because the stalker starts speeding up too, matching his pace.

Just as he’s about to switch into a full-blown sprint, Lance feels a hand clap onto his shoulder in a vice grip.

“Hey!” the stalker says, and Lance lets out an ear-splitting scream, spinning around to slap his assailant across the face with his ballet flats.

The stalker — a guy, pale with dark hair — hisses in pain, one hand reaching up to clutch at his nose. In the dark, Lance can't quite make out his face, only that his hair is styled in an atrocious, greasy mullet. That in it of itself should be a crime, Lance thinks as he tries to get away, pushing back on his feet. The guy's other hand remains firm on Lance’s shoulder, though, holding him in place. Lance starts whacking his arm and face repeatedly to get him to let go.

"Get! Your hand! Off of me!" he yells with each slap. 

“Stop, I’m trying to—!” the stalker tries to say, but Lance is having none of it. He spots an opening and swings his arm forward, slamming his knuckles across the guy’s jaw. His hand finally dislodges from Lance’s shoulder, and Lance sprints off immediately, as fast as he can towards the bus stop.

The bus happens to be just pulling in,  _thank sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph_. Lance doesn’t spare a glance back as he leaps onto it, staggering into a seat and crouching low to hide. He eyes the door warily until it closes, releasing a sigh of relief when no one else gets on and the bus moves away.

He doesn’t look out the window to see if the stalker is still there. He doesn’t even try to process what just happened, clenching onto his heart that’s still hammering a mile a minute.

“Hey kid, you forgot to pay,” the bus driver says, making Lance jump in the air. The driver casts him an bemused look through the rearview mirror, but thankfully doesn’t press him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lance nods numbly, taking a couple deep breaths, before pushing off from his seat.

_Wait ’til Hunk and Pidge hear about this…_

 

— - - -

 

Lance doesn’t sleep well that night, no thanks to the creep who tried to abduct or kill him. Every few hours he keeps waking up from dreams — red painting his eyelids, an unshakable shadow chasing him.

He’s grumpy and still half asleep by the time he walks into first period chemistry, slumping onto his desk for a last minute nap. His chem lab partner, Jason, doesn’t even bat an eye, used to his morning antics. It’s in this state that Lance misses the unusual hush that falls across the room when the bell rings, the normally raucous class suddenly quiet and still.

“Everyone, we have a new student with us today,” Dr. Florona announces, being her ungodly chipper self at eight in the morning. “Keith, would you like to introduce yourself?”

Excited murmuring sweeps through the classroom, peaking Lance’s interest. He unsticks his cheek from the cool surface of the bench top, rubbing his eyes to squint at the newcomer standing in the front. Past his blurry vision, Lance makes out a tall, lean figure, dressed in black jeans, a red bomber jacket, and a tight fitting undershirt, looking like he came straight out of a GQ photoshoot.

“Oh my god, he’s so hot,” Chloe Tran whispers, clearly loud enough for everyone to hear. Everyone’s also in agreement though, or at least they should be, Lance thinks, if they have a working pair of eyes. Keith's at least a solid 9, even with Lance being partially blind. There's the way that he carries himself, too — all easy, self-assured confidence, leaning against the chalkboard with his hands in his pockets.

With bated breath, they wait to hear the new transfer student’s introduction, eager to learn more about him. When Keith finally speaks though, the only word he says is:

"No."

Completely straight-faced, casual. Not a sentence more. 

Everyone collectively blinks, and the ensuing silence is so awkward and tangible you could slice it with a butter knife. If Lance wasn't so exhausted, he'd be rolling on the floor laughing at the whole situation. 

‘ _No’? That’s it?! What a weirdo._

“Umm, okay.” Dr. Florona titters, the same, nervous sound that escapes her whenever she realizes she ought to be working in a corporate research lab instead of dealing with unpredictable, high school teenagers. “Well, everyone. This is Keith Kogane. He just transferred from Galra Technical Institute in Brookyln. Please make him feel welcome. Keith, why don’t you sit… next to…”

Dr. Florona trails off, because Keith’s already making his way to the back of the class, where the only empty desk bench by the window is.

Right behind Lance.

Poor David sitting next to that seat almost topples over in his haste to make room for Keith, who tosses down his book bag and leans back in his chair like he's been there since the beginning of the year. It's ridiculous, how such a simple movement could look so—  _Ugh. Stop it, Lance._  

Really though. Up close, it’s almost unreal how attractive Keith is. He's all strong jaw, long lashes, and smooth, perfect skin. Lance can't help but look, feeling a strange tug in his chest, a thrill at his fingertips.

Dark hair falls over Keith's eyes, obscuring their color. It frames his face in that effortless, bed-rumpled sort of way, curling at the ends, reminding Lance of... of... 

Wait a second…

“ _You!_ ”

Lance leaps up, pointing an accusing finger at Keith.

“Me?” Keith looks at him innocently, but Lance will swear over his grave that he saw the bastard’s mouth curve into an amused smile for a millisecond.

“Lance, do you have something to say to our new student?” Dr. Florona asks, looking between them in puzzlement. Everyone else in class is, too, some of them already sneaking out their phones, typing whatever gossip they’re conjuring up from this scenario to share with the rest of the school. Lance will bet his entire cookie jar that none of their stories will even come close to the truth.

Seeing Keith’s continued blank expression — as if he’s not entirely, unequivocally, un-fucking-doubtedly  _guilty_  — makes Lance want to drag him out the door and call the cops on him right away. The only thing deterring him from doing so is the fact that that would cause even more of a scene, and more explanation than Lance is willing to deal with at the moment. 

So instead, he simply sits back down, shooting a pleasant “nothing” at a frazzled, completely flummoxed Dr. Florona, all the while seething in his seat.

He’s too busy plotting Keith’s demise to notice the other’s unwavering stare on him for the rest of class, flashing a faint, blood red beneath the light.

 

— - - -

 

“So, I heard you have history with the new transfer student today. Care to explain?”

Pidge drops their giant stack of textbooks onto the floor, a resounding  _thump_ reverberating through the theater room. It’s mostly empty during this time of day, only theater production set kids like Hunk working inside, so it’s become their spot to meet up for lunch. 

“History?!” Lance yells, arms flapping and voice pitching shrilly. “He tried to kill me!” 

“Mwhath?” Hunk mumbles absentmindedly around his bagel, focus directed towards the cable he’s wrestling with in the makeshift thunderstorm cloud he’s building. Lance would tell him how absolutely metal it looks if he wasn’t so preoccupied.

“You know that stalker I texted you guys about last night? It’s him!”

Hunk swallows his bagel whole, focus now directed fully on Lance. “Woah there, let’s not jump to conclusions, bro.”

“I know it’s him!” Lance hisses. “I’d recognize that mullet anywhere!”

“You can’t remember his face but you remember his eighties hairstyle?”

“Lance, like you said, it was dark,” Pidge points out, scribbling briskly into their physics notebook while snacking on pretzels. They’re only half paying attention to Lance’s woes, the audacity. “You can’t go accusing the new transfer student just because your memory recall is latching onto similar details.”

“I’m not ‘latching onto similar details,’ my memory works perfectly!”

“Are you sure it’s not because he’s good looking?” Hunk brings up politely, the only way Hunk can. Lance rolls his eyes as dramatically as he can, despite feeling his cheeks flush just a tad.

“Yes, he’s devastatingly handsome, but he also tried to  _murder me!_ ”

“ _Devastating_ ,” Pidge snickers. “That’s a first.”

“Guys, please. I’m being serious.” Lance wrings his hands, feeling increasingly agitated. He can't really explain it, the anxiety that's been gnawing at him all morning since Keith's arrival, but he needs his friends to understand that it's genuinely affecting him. Hunk picks up on this, and he places his wide palm soothingly against Lance’s back. Pidge looks up from their work, too, pushing their glasses up with concern.

“All right," they say, mouth pressing into a grim line. "Let’s get to the bottom of this.” They pull out another notebook from their backpack — a worn, charcoal moleskin this time — and flicks it open to a blank page. On the top, they write out: STALKER KEITH CONSPIRACY.

“So, what else makes you think Keith’s your stalker from last night, Lance?” they begin, clicking their pen. Lance exhales a shaky breath, holding up his fingers to count them off as he goes.

“Well, for one, he definitely has the same, disastrous hairstyle. And second, he's around the same height, plus the same build..."

Closing his eyes, he searches his memory for any other defining features that stick out. He remembers the faint smell of motor oil, a creak of leather against his shoulder.

"Pretty sure he’s wearing the same fingerless gloves, too." Keith had on a pair, dark against his pale skin. "Also, isn’t it weird that he was in all four of my classes this morning?”

Pidge hums, writing notes down in their book, but shakes their head. “You share all eight of your classes with several people Lance. It's a small honors group, so overlapping four isn’t saying much.”

“Okay, but who even transfers in the middle of their senior year?”

“It’s unusual for sure but not unheard of.”

Lance grumbles, shoulders hunching as he wracks his brain for more condemning details. His memory is, admittedly, patchwork and fuzzy in places, but that gut feeling remains, telling him he’s on the right track.

After a while, Hunk lights up.

“Oh, oh! You said you punched him right? Across the jaw? Where’s the bruise then? I know from defense class your right hook hurts like a motherfo, and it would definitely leave a nasty mark.”

Lance frowns, slightly stumped, until Pidge lifts their pen up.

“He could be hiding it with concealer,” they say, nodding approvingly, and makes a note of it. Lance almost kisses them, because Pidge always takes his side in the end, and because he can’t believe they finally remembered what concealer is. Bless their heart.

All three of them jot down a few more notes and possibilities after that, but in the end, nothing substantial adds up.

“Sorry Lance,” Pidge says, tucking their pen back behind their ear. “Unfortunately, we just don’t have any hard evidence on Keith right now. We’ll have to somehow check if he’s using concealer to hide a bruise, or catch him in the act.”

“Catch him in the act? What, like wait for him to make another attempt at my life?” Lance doesn’t like the sound of that one bit.

“I’m still on the fence about the murder part, to be honest.”

“We could just ask him,” Hunk suggests, to which Lance shakes his head vehemently.

“No way, what if that just makes him more… stabby? I’m not gonna risk that.”

“Stabby?” Hunk mumbles, brows furrowing, while Pidge licks their thumb to flip to a new page.

“Okay, let’s set up a game plan then. Operation catch stalker Keith before he catches Lance.”

“Pidget,” Lance says, lower lip wobbling with gratitude. He nearly knocks them over with the force of his hug. “I love you and owe you my life,” he says wholeheartedly, which has Pidge laughing and wriggling out of his grasp, brushing it off with “yeah, yeah, don’t lay it on thick now.”

They spend the rest of the lunch period hashing out a plan to expose Keith somehow, laughing and shouting out ideas, each one getting more ridiculous than the next. Lance revels in it as he always does whenever he’s with Hunk and Pidge, and for a moment, he’s able to forget about all the craziness that's happened to him in the past 24 hours. He's able to forget about the red in his dreams; the disquieting shadow on the back of his neck, looming close.

He forgets, and lets himself be a normal teenager for just a little longer.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't attend Juilliard, and while I've been to New York City several times, I've only ever survived in that crazy place with my tourist hat and Google Maps. That being said, I tweaked the details of auditioning for the dance dept at Juilliard, and New York is a mash of Voltron canon settings plus /vague hand gesture/. Sorry, it's fiction after all, please let me live this fantasy world lol. HOWEVER, the ballet details: please do let me know if I made any errors in those descriptions. Also, if there's anything else you take issue with, please inform me in the comments and I'll do my best to fix it. I'm open to constructive criticism!!


	2. soccer blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to @shitpilot for this chapter b/c she was the one who came up with the idea that vampires get dehydrated under the sun and need to drink more blood accordingly. The concept isn't really delved into too deeply here, but I wanted to make sure she got credit where credit's due. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on the first chapter!! You guys are the best :') I hope you enjoy reading!

Keith hates waiting.

It’s one of his flaws, he knows — his lack of patience has landed him in enough bad situations over the years. He’s never bothered to learn from any of them either.

When he was five, for instance, he nearly had his legs cleaved off by a machete after begging his retainers to let him start combat training earlier than the other dhampirs. When he was eight, he got struck by lightning midway through a hike, because he had refused to wait around sensibly under cover for a storm to clear. And when he was thirteen, he was put under house arrest by the Elders who realized he’d been stealing Shelby Cobras out for joy rides in the middle of the night.

The joy rides weren’t the problem, the millennia old snobs had said; it was the fact that Keith kept, quote, _“exploiting his God-given abilities,”_ to compel police officers to turn a blind eye whenever he ran through a red light.

So, evidently, he’s had a few issues with patience — or his utter lack thereof it — growing up. And this time, it got the hell slapped out of him by Lance.

 _You also got punched_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully as he enters his building, the doorman greeting him with a smile. Keith nods back, making his way through the lobby and foregoing the elevators for the stairs instead. He needed to work off the excess adrenaline, his excitement and disappointment all mixed into one.

Lance hadn’t remembered him — not that Keith was expecting him to, given the circumstances, but… Had it been silly of Keith to hope? It’s only been a year. Humans have such short lifespans after all; every memory to them must hold some sort of significance.

Keith, at least, remembered Lance perfectly. In the hundred and eighty years he’s been alive now, his memory of Lance shines more brilliantly than most. From his blue eyes to his chestnut hair. His sharp elbows and pointed nose. He’s grown a few more inches, and found strength in his limbs where they used to be awkward, caught in a growth spurt. But his scent was the same, just as intoxicating as when Keith first met him. And he still smiled the same, too, all warm and bright like an Indian summer.

He looked happy at his dance practice. Healthy. Not like the way Keith left him a year ago.

Keith peers down at his watch when he reaches his floor, realizing it was already 2AM. _Shit._ Shiro would be back, and would probably want to ask how dinner went with the pharmaceutical executives. Not that Keith stayed through the whole boring thing. He settled the deal and left Regris to handle the finishing procedures, running away to find Lance.

Which reminds him, that was the worst possible way for him to have approached Lance, but what was he supposed to have done? A creep had been trailing him after he exited the convenience store, and then he had decided to walk through those sketchy back alleys like it was a normal daylight stroll through the park. Keith had just managed to scare the stalker off before Lance checked behind his back and freaked out on him.

The pulse of his fear had been sharp and disorientating in Keith’s gut, and it had told him immediately that he fucked up.

Keith slips past the entrance into his flat, wincing when his keys chime painfully loud inside the fishbowl he drops them in. He’s lost his touch, it seems. A lumberjack with a machine gun in Siberia could’ve heard that, much less— 

“Keith, that you?”

_Damn it._

“Yup, Shiro. It’s me.” Keith straightens and abandons the stealth act, sighing lowly as he shuts the door behind him. He had been hoping to sneak into his bedroom and evade confrontation, in case Regris hadn’t covered his ass this time like he’s done multiple times before in the past, bless his heart. Regris hadn’t questioned Keith when he left early, and hopefully his most laid-back retainer told Shiro a white lie about the ending of the dinner. Keith makes a mental note to treat him to a pumpkin spice latte next time, the only human food Regris can stomach.

He makes his way to the living room, dumping his coat and shoes carelessly on the spotless oak floor. The place is immaculately clean again after the maids came around to scrub every inch of it down, and Keith privately hates it.

They own the entire 88th floor of Altea Avenue Plaza; a bit of clutter here and there shouldn’t be fussed over.

“What happened to your face?”

Shiro walks out of his bedroom, hair wet and towel flung over his shoulders. Keith can tell from the perturbed frown on his face that he’s seconds away from propping his hands on his hips and giving Keith the big brother talk, one that Keith would prefer not to be subjected to for the three-hundred and forty-sixth time (yes, he’s keeping count).

“Thought I saw a classmate,” he says flippantly, holding back a snarky _“good to see you too, Shiro.”_ He falls backwards onto the couch, ready to pass out right there. “I wanted to say hi but he clocked me in the face.”

Shiro turns on the light, bathing the room in a bright, butter glow, effectively foiling Keith’s plan of dozing off mid-conversation. “And exactly how did you approach this person that made him punch you instead of saying hi?”

Keith flings his arm over his eyes, waving his other hand beseechingly. “The light is really unnecessary Shiro we live in New York—”

“Keith.”

“—you can see all the lights from the window _and_ we have night vision—”

“ _Keith._ ”

Keith grouses, dropping his arm and sitting back up with the realization that he’s not going to get out of this one. “I…” he starts, wracking his brain for the least condemning explanation. “Respectfully followed him for a couple blocks and then grabbed his shoulder?”

The groan that Shiro releases at his response lets Keith know he’s failed miserably. 

“Keith, we talked about your people skills,” Shiro says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Keith only grumbles noncommittally. “You know humans feel less safe at night. Following him and then _grabbing_ him? What were you thinking?”

“He was being followed by some other creep! I compelled the guy to fuck off and then tried to stop him to let him know I could give him a ride, but he misinterpreted it and ran away before I could explain myself.”

“As chivalrous as that is, I’m pretty sure your classmate could’ve handled himself judging by the size of that bruise on your face. Who the hell did you get hit by, a football jock?”

 _A ballet dancer,_ Keith corrects silently, but gets up from his seat to check on his face in the powder room. Shiro shakes his head and makes his way to the kitchen, voice trailing behind him. “Heal that already. It’s hardly a scratch.”

In the mirror, Keith sees that the spot where Lance had punched him was beginning to color purple, the flesh swollen around his jawbone. It stings just a tad now that he’s paying attention to it — like Shiro said, a human punch is akin to a bug bite — but Keith smiles, touching the burgeoning bruise almost fondly.

“He has a pretty good right hook,” he says to himself with a tinge of admiration.

“What was that?” Shiro calls from the kitchen.

“Nothing!” Keith shoots back, leaving the bruise as it is, then shuts off all the lights in the loft to cloak the rooms in darkness once more. Through the floor to ceiling windows, Manhattan glitters like a chandelier, softened beneath a blanket of mist.

Shiro shuffles back with a blood bag, one of the smaller rations. Type B+. Patient with low glucose levels but otherwise no health concerns. The scarlet rim around his eyes lessens as he drains the entire package.

“Better?” Keith asks, crossing his arms with a smirk. Shiro looks almost sheepish now that he’s not cranky and addled by hunger.

“Yeah, better. But this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. How do you expect to go to school tomorrow when you can’t talk to a classmate without getting punched?”

Keith rolls his eyes and decides to deflect the topic, hoping Shiro will at least humor him. “How was meeting Matt’s family?”

A soft light flickers in Shiro’s eyes, and Keith knows he’s succeeded. _This sap. Matt’s got him good._

“They were nice,” Shiro says, tossing the empty blood bag into the trash and slumping onto the couch. The slack lines of his posture expose his exhaustion, and Keith feels a pang of sympathy. While their kind can go weeks without sleep, even they hit their limits eventually. He forgets too often that, although Shiro isn’t the appointed leader of their faction, he works just as hard if not harder.

The resentment surrounding that decision still blackens Keith’s thoughts.

Not that Shiro can ever know that.

“Matt said that his parents liked me a lot, but I think his sister is on to me. She’s even more perceptive than Matt is. I knew I should’ve drank more before I left that day.”

Keith frowns, sitting down beside him. “I told you last week’s rations were bad. One of the patients had Hep C. There’s no way 2 packs of that would have kept you going for the entire day.”

“I’m an old man, Keith. My liver is failing.”

“You’re only two hundred and fifty, Shiro. Get over yourself.”

Shiro laughs tiredly, his eyes falling close. Keith twists the skin of his good arm to jolt him back awake, retribution for his stunt earlier with the lights. 

“Does Matt know you’re here right now?” he asks while Shiro scowls and rubs his arm, the metal of his prosthetic cooling the pinch. He doesn’t complain though, probably because he knows he deserved it.

“Yeah, I let him know I had to come back for reserves.”

“Are you going back to MIT with him tomorrow?”

Shiro nods, and maybe it’s the tiredness, or maybe it’s because he still feels bad about chewing Keith out, but he starts to talk about his time at school: the grad courses he’s taking, the messy parties he’s invited to, the astrophysics thesis he’s working on with Matt and their frenetic supervisor, Professor Slav…

It’s been a while since they’ve talked like this. As family. As brothers. Keith’s missed it.

“I’m sorry I was being hard on you earlier,” Shiro says after a while, looking at Keith sincerely. Keith rolls his eyes, feigning nonchalance.

“It’s fine. You get like that when you’re hungry.”

Shiro smiles, clapping his hand onto his shoulder. “I heard the deal went well today from Regris.” Keith silently thanks Regris for being an angel among vampires. “I’m proud of you, Keith. You’re adapting to your position as the leader of the Blades well.”

 _You’re better suited for the job_ , Keith thinks, but he bites his tongue. They’ve had that argument enough times, and Keith will bear with the position for as long as he can if it keeps Shiro happy and off his case. It’s not entirely Shiro’s fault, anyway. It’s the Covenant and their classist, purist bullshit.

_He could’ve taken the spot if he tried, though. Ulaz would’ve attested for him._

Keith snaps out of his thoughts before they spiral out of control, burying them carefully once more. “I don’t know how you used to put up with those money-hungry vultures. They get greedier every decade.”

“They’re not all bad, especially the hospital sector. We just have to keep the others in line.”

“Or we could get rid of them,” Keith mutters, and Shiro looks to the ceiling resignedly. Keith could almost see him chanting in his head _patience yields focus._ “You have to admit that’d be easier.”

Shiro ignores his obviously logical comment and changes the topic. “You should probably get some rest for the morning. I still can’t believe you chose to go back to high school as your birthday present. I anticipated you wanting a new motorbike, not this.”

“Red works perfectly for me, I resent that,” Keith says, thinking of his prized Ducati Panigale stowed away in the garage. He custom built her himself and wouldn’t trade her for anything. “And you get to attend college in your spare time. Why can’t I go to school, too? I’m technically eighteen in human years.”

He doesn’t mention the actual reason he wants to go, preferring Shiro stay none the wiser. Keith doesn’t even want to think about how mad he would be if he ever found out the truth.

“All right, all right. Fair,” Shiro says, holding up his hands and laughing quietly as he gets up to head to bed. “Just… Try to make some friends? Don’t stab anyone like you did in nineteen fifty-four.”

“That racist asshole deserved it,” Keith says obstinately. Shiro sighs, and starts his usual lecture of _“I agree, but we only have so much control over the law, please behave, yada yada yada…”_

Keith tunes him out, mind drifting to the boy he’ll be seeing again in only a few hours.

.

.

.

Seeing Lance turns out to be a more difficult ordeal than Keith anticipated. He can’t even blame anyone except himself for the predicament, making it all the more frustrating.

Lance caught on fairly quickly that Keith was the one who had stopped him last night. It amused Keith at first, seeing his reaction. The way his blue eyes lit up in recognition. The rose-colored flush of his neck and ears. Everything about Lance was so vivid, from his palette of expressions to his bursts of movement.

It didn’t help that, while his bloodlust was significantly tampered down from the meal he had in the morning, Lance’s blood still entranced him like nothing else he’s ever experienced. Keith couldn’t take his eyes off the nape of Lance’s neck through every class period they shared, regardless of where he sat in proximity. The pale blue of Lance’s veins pulsed enticingly beneath his warm, brown skin, making Keith’s throat dry and his stomach ache for hours.

Keith had hoped that he would get a chance to talk to Lance and explain what happened last night, but as soon as fourth period ended, Lance hightailed out of class. Despite the scent of his blood and the half-formed tether connecting them, Garrison High was large enough that Keith eventually lost track of him.

He couldn’t exactly keep a low profile either, being the new student and all. It seemed like the entire student body had learned about his arrival by lunchtime, swarming him like moths to a flame. Several attempted to invite him into their clubs, and others asked questions that were way too personal. Keith swears at one point someone straight up asked him about his dick size.

_It’s definitely above average, thanks._

By the end of the day, he wasn’t able to relocate Lance, until he glimpsed him waving to two of his friends, duffle bag in hand.

 _I really shouldn’t follow him again_ , Keith tries to reason with himself, but he gives in almost embarrassingly easily to the impulse. He winds up tailing the dancer from a distance as he makes his way to the Metro, appearing to be headed for ballet class.

Although Keith wasn’t guilty of being the creep who almost mugged Lance, he was technically guilty of following him. Ever since arriving in New York at the end of September and catching sight of him in Bryant Park, Keith’s been sneaking out during his spare time to watch Lance whenever he was out at school or in the city.

He never followed Lance back to his home. He never did more than quietly observe from a distance. But Keith knows that none of the boundaries he set up made any of his behavior right.

He couldn’t help it. After convincing himself for over a year that he’d never see Lance again, that they’d go their separate ways and Keith would eventually forget everything that had happened in a century, they collide again on the other side of the continent like some cruel, cosmic joke. _Like a blessing._ And no matter how many times Keith told himself there was no point, that if he got any closer it would only complicate matters for the worst, he couldn’t stay away from Lance.

He wanted to see him. Wanted to get to know him. Wanted to be friends, at the very least.

He wanted to taste his blood.

_That can never happen. Stop._

“Yo, sir? Do you need any help?”

The voice of the convenience store clerk reels Keith out of his thoughts. Belatedly, he registers that he’s been glaring at a bag of chips in his hand for the past thirty minutes. The store clerk — Kevin, by the name tag — looks like he could care less.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

Kevin shrugs before moving away. Keith resists the urge to smack his head against the snack shelf. He’s been out of it all day after being so close to Lance and the heady scent of his blood. He needs to get it together.

His phone vibrates in his pant pocket and he answers it with a grunt.

“Master Keith, good to hear from you, too,” Regris says from the other side, his amused sarcasm evident. Keith relaxes, rubbing the crease between his brows that’s surely going to be permanent by the end of the month.

“Sorry. Thanks for covering for me yesterday, Regris.”

“Of course.” Keith could hear him smiling. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you this time. You know how strict Kolivan is about punctuality, and you are terribly late by his standards.”

Keith straightens from his bent position over the snack shelf, checking the time on his watch. 7:32PM. Confusion morphs into dread when he figures it out. _Shit._ Had he really lost track of time that badly? Kolivan’s literally going to kill him.

“I completely forgot.”

Now Regris is frowning. “That’s unlike you, Master Keith. Is everything all right?”

Keith’s about to form a half-assed excuse until a streak of blue catches his attention at the corner of his eye. Almost like slow-motion film, he angles his gaze to see Lance, pink-cheeked and gaping at him, standing at the end of the aisle. His bangs are still wet, sticking to his forehead in curls. He must’ve just got out of practice.

They keep staring at each other for several heartbeats more, Regris’ questioning voice faint in the receiver.

Then, Lance bolts.

“Gotta go,” Keith says, hanging up. Lance is already halfway out the door. For a human his long legs move absurdly fast.

“Damnit— Hey, wait!” Keith calls after him, slamming through the door. He barely manages to control his strength at the last second, the whole panel of glass and framework nearly shattering.

“Nope, not today Satan!”

“I just want to talk!”

“I can’t talk if I’m _dead!_ ”

 _What does that even mean?!_ Keith almost yells in frustration, but he lets Lance speed walk away, reminding himself that it’s indecent to keep pursuing someone who’s clearly not interested in talking. Plus, he’s not willing to get slapped to hell and back by a pair of ballet slippers again.

_Would it hurt for him to give me a chance though?_

The pigeon on the ground hoots at him, having watched the whole scene. Its blinking eyes almost look like it’s laughing at his expense. Keith glares at it until it flaps away.

 _Tomorrow for sure,_ he tries to reassure himself, and prays Kolivan will show him mercy at training despite being late.

 

— - - -

 

Kolivan does not show him mercy at all, the ancient, sadistic fuck.

Keith hasn’t felt so much pain since he was 15, over 30 years ago. Every bone in his body aches, let alone his battered, abused muscles. He inhaled 4 blood bags in the morning in an attempt to heal faster, but his entire body still hurts, all the way to his fucking fingernails.

His mood only worsens when Lance avoids him all during school, too, refusing to look his way in class and sprinting off at breaks. Maybe that was for the better, though, since Lance’s apprehension spikes every time Keith’s nearby. The feeling stirs incessantly in Keith’s gut, something akin to nausea, lessening only when Lance is far away enough.

It sucks though, regardless. The smell of Lance calms Keith down, yet his agitated emotions also make Keith want to tear his hair out. Lance feels _so much_ , all the time. How does he stand it?

In the afternoon, Keith decides it’s best he doesn’t follow Lance again, despite how much he wants to prove his innocence already. It would probably only make the situation worse. Besides, Kolivan’s tightened his leash, taking over Antok’s evening Systema training session in order to dole out more cruel and unusual punishment for Keith’s tardiness.

“Where has your focus gone, child?” Kolivan reprimands him that night, throwing Keith against the wall like a rag doll. Keith crumples to the ground, clutching his stomach, but he recovers quickly and staggers back onto his feet before Kolivan can kick him down again.

They’ve been sparring for over an hour now, secluded away in the basement of Gotham Gym bought by their faction a couple years ago. Keith’s nearing his limit, his limbs quaking as he stands, not that he’ll ever admit it. Kolivan would only push him harder, like he’s always done.

“Fucking… stop talking… old man,” Keith rasps, smirking defiantly despite the searing pain. His body is working overtime to heal the wounds as they form, the heat in his veins escalating. At least the burn grounds him from drifting too far into his thoughts. He can channel all his irritation at his current predicament and land a couple solid kicks on his hard-ass retainer before he’s inevitably beaten into submission.

Kolivan retreats back into his starting stance, beckoning Keith to come. “Again,” he directs, and Keith hurls himself forward, submerging himself in the fight until it all blurs into sweat and color.

By Thursday, Keith has had enough of Lance averting him. He’s sore. He’s cranky. He wishes Lance would look at him differently already.

It’s lab day in Chemistry, so Keith bribes the kid that usually partners with Lance to sit somewhere else, no questions asked. Jasper, Jimmy — whatever the fuck his name is, Keith doesn’t care — complies with a shrug, and Keith stews in his seat until Lance arrives.

When the dancer skips into class at the last second, Keith takes a moment to admire him calmly before the storm.

Lance really is pretty, out of all the boys Keith’s seen in the near two centuries he’s been alive. His brown hair is windswept, dark skin blistered scarlet from the cold. Lashes sweep against high cheekbones. Full lips press into slender hands. He’s bouncing on his toes, still shivering despite the layers he’s wearing, and Keith has the inexplicable urge to bundle him up and keep him warm.

He smells so, impossibly good.

 _Look at me._ Keith tests the link and feels nothing on the other side, cold and empty. _You don’t have to be there for me. Only look at me._

Lance turns, finally noticing Keith at his seat. Keith watches as a flare of surprise passes through him before his expression clears, mouth thinning into a grim line. He stomps forward with an air of determination.

“What did you do with Jason?” Lance accuses, like he’s already decided it’s Keith’s fault. (Which it is, but that’s an irrelevant detail.)

“He wanted to switch partners today,” Keith responds smoothly, swiveling in his high chair and feigning coolness. He’s never felt more uncool in his life. “We’re getting started so put on your gloves.”

The assignment was written on the board, something about forming a precipitate and identifying the compound. Lance takes a glance at it, then stares back at Keith for several beats longer. Then, finally, he huffs, shucking off his layers and moving to pull all the materials out for the experiment.

They work side by side in tense silence for a few minutes, Lance tugging on a pair of Latex gloves almost viciously. He’s muttering under his breath as he gathers pipettes and beakers, the glass clinking dangerously. “He shows up and starts ordering me around, what a gentleman.”

Keith grits his teeth as he sets up the Bunsen burner on their shared bench, feeling a spark of annoyance in his chest.

“Can you stop being difficult for one minute?” he bites out, regretting the words immediately after.

“ _Me?_ ” Lance hisses, shoving his goggles on with way too much force. It’d be cute if Keith wasn’t so ticked off, the way his ears get smushed beneath the band. “I’m not the one who attacked someone in the dark and keeps stalking them everywhere!”

“I was trying to _help_ you!”

Lance’s eyes fishbowl behind the goggle lens. “Oh my god, you just admitted it! I knew it was you!”

Keith groans in exasperation, wanting to sink his face into his hands. They really shouldn’t be having this conversation while working with an open flame, he realizes belatedly.

“Listen, some other guy had been following you. I didn’t think it was safe for you to be walking anymore so I wanted to offer you a ride, but you turned around and started beating me up!”

“Oh, so you’re the victim here?”

“No, that’s not—”

“Look, even if what you said about the other guy stalking me is true, that doesn’t explain why _you_ were also there.” Lance jabs his pointer finger into Keith’s chest. Keith feels a bolt go through him, brief and electric.

“I was in the area,” he fibs, calmly. It’s only a half-lie. 

“And the other night, too? At Seven-Eleven?”

“What, are you saying I’m not allowed to be at a convenience store?”

“I’m saying it’s rude and illegal to stalk people!”

“I wasn’t stalking you! I was in the area and happened to bump into you!”

“Fine, you were diet stalking me then!”

“ _Diet stalking?_ ”

“Yeah, it’s the same as stalking except covered in _lies_ because I _know_ —”

If they weren’t arguing, Keith would be clutching his stomach and laughing. That’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Lance is ridiculous. Not to mention stubborn and overdramatic and so, _so_ pretty it’s clouding Keith’s better judgement.

“Can we— Can we just start over? Please?”

Something in his voice must’ve registered with Lance, because he pauses in his rant, expression softening for a second. Keith holds his breath and prays for the best. Surely Lance will understand. Surely Keith’s been patient for long enough.

Lance opens his mouth.

The sprinklers go off.

Immediately, everyone in class starts screaming.

“Okay, remain calm as you exit everyone!” Dr. Florona shouts, holding the door open as students start shoving to get out. Keith stares at the ceiling like it’s personally betrayed him, then shifts his gaze back down at Lance. For some reason, Lance isn’t reacting like the others, packing his bag almost calmly as they exit the room.

In the hallway, he gives Keith one last lingering look, expression unreadable, before disappearing into the crowd that’s gathered to see the commotion. He leaves with Keith’s question unanswered.

Class is canceled, and everyone’s given the option of being excused for the rest of the day. On top of being sore and cranky, Keith’s also now miserably wet. Being a vampire unfortunately doesn’t come with an anatomical drying system, unlike those pesky werewolves in Alaska. Everyone around him within a 5 feet radius backs away as he walks through the parking lot, sensing his likely murderous aura.

Passing by a line of cars on his way to his motorbike, Keith’s ears pick up a trio of voices coming from a green sedan. Two of them he doesn’t recognize, but the third…

“Ow, Pidge, give me my pants already!” Lance says, and while Keith doesn’t stop walking, his ears hone into the interior of the car.

“Lance, you’re gonna hurt yourself shoving your arm into your shirt like that.”

“No way, Hunk, I’m totally flexible enough.”

“Did our plan work by the way?”

“Yeah, did you see if he had a bruise?”

“No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. He already confessed.”

“What, seriously?!”

“So he’s your stalker for sure?”

Keith stills, keys in the ignition. All his concentration is centered on Lance’s answer.

“Well… He said there was actually some other creep following me, and that he just wanted to give me a ride. But I— I don’t know—”

Keith growls, cutting the connection silent. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence, turning the engine of his bike on with a yank, cranking the speed well past the limit and daring any cops to stop him as he thunders off.

 

— - - -

 

His luck only worsens the next day.

They get a chemistry quiz they took earlier in the week back from grading. Keith hadn’t studied for it, having already learned the material from his tutors decades prior, so when Dr. Florona hands the paper back with an effusive, “well done, Keith,” he barely spares it any attention.

“Lance, you’ve got some competition,” Dr. Florona continues, handing Lance’s quiz to him. “You’ll have to fight for the top scores in class now.”

Keith watches Lance curiously as the other boy scans through his mark and answers. He made a 19.5, a mere half point below Keith’s perfect score. It’s still a really good mark, considering the average was only 15 points according to the whiteboard. Lance, however, seems livid.

He whips around and levels Keith with a glare.

“You’re going down, Kogane,” he hisses, expression so fierce Keith actually feels a shiver jolt down his spine. Keith’s left feeling bereft when he whips back forward, wondering what he could have possibly messed up now.

The rest of the morning passes by without event, Lance staunchly ignoring him with even more fervor. At lunch, seeking refuge from his classmates who are still hounding him with club invitations, Keith finds himself in the engineering workshop, a place where most students avoid. It’s blessedly empty for the most part, save for one guy tinkering with what looks to be a small-scale satellite in the corner. It’s massively impressive and hooks Keith’s interest.

When he walks over, he recognizes the guy as one of Lance’s friends. He’s so focused on his project that he doesn’t even notice Keith standing a foot away from him, examining the construction. It’s near perfect, save for a couple chinks in need of altering.

“The solar panel’s not connected properly,” he says, pointing at the cable.

“Wh—” The boy startles, nearly dropping the parts. Keith’s hands catch them before they fall to the ground.

“Oh, um. Thanks dude,” the boy says, taking the parts back and settling them down on the workbench. He looks up at Keith, eyes widening. “You’re… You’re Keith, right?”

Keith nods, wondering how he’ll react. He’s darker and broader than Lance is, stocky where Lance is lean. He has a kind smile, one that he gives Keith after a slight pause, asking: “Do you want to help?”

Keith sits down, and together they finish building the satellite until the end of the lunch period, the process meditative for Keith. It reminds him of how he used to build car engines with Shiro, oil coating their fingers and triumph in their chests when their creations sputtered to life.

“Hey, you don’t seem that bad, man,” Hunk says when they’re done, raising his hand for a high-five. Keith slaps it with a smile.

“Thanks.”

“I’m Hunk by the way. Hunk Ka’uhane. Lance, ah… Lance has said some things about you.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Keith says, grimacing as he wipes the grease from his hands a tad too harshly. Hunk offers him a look of sympathy. 

“Sorry, he tends to get ideas in his head he can’t get rid of, but he comes around eventually.”

“Ha, that’s kind of hard to believe. He seemed even more pissed off at me this morning after I beat his quiz score.”

“Ooooh… Oh no. Yeah, Lance is super _soups_ competitive. Like, he’ll kill a man during Kahoot, no joke.”

Keith snorts, for some reason finding that fact endearing.

“Hunk, there you are! We’ve been looking for you!”

Speak of the devil. Lance bounds in with his other friend, the short one with glasses. They look vaguely familiar, but Keith can’t place them.

Lance stops short when he sees Keith, and Keith braces himself for whatever problem Lance is going to find with him this time.

“Hunk, what are you doing?” Lance asks, eyes darting away. Keith can’t read him, and Lance’s emotions are strangely quiet today.

“Keith was helping me with the satellite! Look, it’s finished!” Hunk holds the satellite up proudly. The one with the glasses dashes over, letting out an appreciative whistle.

“Sweet, Hunk! Let’s test it on the field today.”

“Sounds good, Pidge.”

“Guys, can we go?”

There’s that spike of apprehension again, roiling restlessly in Keith’s gut. Something’s different about it this time, though. It’s… less sharp. Softer and lower. If Lance wasn’t already furiously walking out the room, dragging Hunk and Pidge behind him, Keith might’ve been able to figure it out. 

Hunk shoots him an apologetic smile as he’s pulled away. When they’re gone, Keith throws his towel to the side, the smack echoing mockingly through the empty room.

By late afternoon, Keith feels unnaturally drained. Probably due to all the stress of the past week. He makes a mental note to up his blood intake as he grabs his bag from his locker and joins the rush of students dying to go home or start their after school activities. Keith, on his part, isn’t looking forward to another 3 hours of getting tossed around by Kolivan.

On the way to the parking lot, he sees Lance, Hunk, and Pidge sitting on the bleachers, crouched over the miniature satellite Keith had helped Hunk build earlier. On the field, a band of other students are kicking around a soccer ball, apparently starting an impromptu game. One of the guys scores a rather impressive shot, but his belting victory cheer borders on obnoxious and grates Keith’s ears.

“Méndez, did you see that shot?” The boy calls out as his friends clap his back, and Keith realizes with a flare of irritation that he’s talking to Lance.

Lance barely looks away from the satellite. “Yeah, I saw it!”

“So when am I getting that date, sweetheart, huh?”

“Not even in your dreams, Kennedy!” Lance shouts back, throwing up his middle finger for emphasis. Keith feels his shoulders loosen, but his scowl must have remained, because Kennedy takes notice of him with a smirk.

“Hey, new kid! You look like you’re bitchin’ for a fight. Wanna play?”

Keith would very much like to knock his teeth out, that’s for sure. When Lance looks up at the sound of his name, though — actually _looks_ at Keith — that nails the coffin on his decision.

“Yeah, I’ll play,” he says, tossing his book bag aside and shrugging off his jacket. Kennedy whoops as Keith marches onto the field, demanding the others to rearrange themselves into 2 teams. He’s the blonde, crude, and cocksure type that Keith instantly hates.

“You’ve got a nice face too, new kid. You interested in Méndez?” Kennedy leers at him, trying to goad a reaction. Keith only regards him with cool distaste as their respective teams take up positions, not rising to the bait. He’ll be sure to wipe that look off Kennedy’s face when he beats him. 

It’s been a decade or two since Keith’s last kicked around a soccer ball, but the motions have long been ingrained into muscle memory. It’s his favorite sport after all, and he knows he’s damn good at it, even without his extra abilities.

He flies across the field, barely giving up the ball whenever it’s passed to him, scoring on every attempt. It doesn’t take long before the people on his team realize he’s on par with a pro, and they quickly start relaying the ball to him every chance they get. Keith feels the tension in his muscles unbuckling as the game goes on, relishing in the exertion and excitement of a sport he enjoys.

In the background, he hears a familiar voice screaming.

“Kick his ass, Keith!”

It’s Lance, actually cheering for him.

Pleasure bolts through him at the realization, delicious and dizzying, and it makes him lose focus for a split second. It’s enough for him to not notice the limb aimed at him, jamming straight into his jaw.

He forgot that humans, when fearing their own loss, like to play dirty.

“Foul! Foul! That was clearly— Oh my fucking _god_ did you not see Kennedy’s crusty elbow hitting him?!”

Keith clutches at his jaw, feigning hurt when the jab had felt like nothing. Lance’s punch had stung way more, but Keith lays the acting on thick, basking in the sound of Lance defending him.

Kennedy’s given the yellow card, and Keith’s team receives an indirect free kick. They win the game in the next few minutes, all to nothing.

At the declared victory, his team rush at him, lifting him up onto their shoulders. Keith soaks it up for what it’s worth, satisfied that he knocked Kennedy down a few notches. His mind is ultimately elsewhere though, eyes searching for the boy who had cheered for him nonstop from the bleachers. Their eyes meet across the field, and as soon as Keith’s settled back down on the ground, he runs towards him.

"Hey," he says, breathlessly. His eyes track every one of Lance's micro-movements. The way he licks his lips. How he crosses his arms in front of him, fingers twisting nervously into his jacket. The pulse in his neck is beating erratically. 

“Hey, um. I’m… I’m glad you won,” Lance says, looking down at the ground. His gaze shifts back up quickly, though, eyes blue and bright as an afternoon sea. 

“Thanks." Keith barely hears his own voice, hope stirring in his chest. Maybe Lance will talk to him now, normally. Maybe this is when they can start being friends. 

“But— But you know! Just because you’re all dark and handsome and good at soccer doesn’t mean I forgive you for your diet stalking yet!”

Only one part of that sentence registers in Keith’s head.

“You—You think I’m handsome?”

Lance flushes a deep, blooming red. Keith knows he’s attractive — it kind of comes with the territory of being a vampire after all — but hearing Lance call him handsome… It’s the first time Keith’s felt flustered and satisfied by such a comment. 

“Ob-objectively!” Lance squawks, bright as an apple. 

“I don’t think you’re using that word right,” Hunk pipes nervously while Pidge looks like they’re about to laugh themselves off the ledge of the bleachers.

“I am too! Whatever, I’m— I’m cold and I’m leaving. Immediately!” Lance flees, practically trailing steam behind him. Hunk and Pidge jump up too, Pidge saluting Keith with a grinning “pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Stalker,” before running off. Keith can only gape at their retreating figures, still reeling from what had just transpired.

At least now he knows Lance doesn’t hate him. Quite the opposite in fact, judging by the low throb Keith felt in his stomach earlier. That wasn’t anxiety this time. That was—

“Hey, young man. You should join the soccer team.”

_Shit._

Kolivan is gonna kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about soccer, but soccer players are hot, and Keith is hot, so. I have simple needs :)
> 
> Vampires in this universe are born and kind of age like dog years? Lol. 1 vampire year = 10 human years, roughly. (Or is it thought of the other way around... I own a cat.) No one has a sure estimate, except for the observation that the oldest vampires die off when they're around a thousand years old, give or take a century or two. So 250 year old vampire Shiro is equivalent to 25 year old human Shiro. 
> 
> Did I explain the mush in my brain properly? xD Please let me know in the comments, or whatever thoughts you had from the chapter. I love hearing from people, and come chat with me @ephemelody on twitter if you'd like ^^ Sending cookies and good vibes!!


	3. suspicious groceries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story suddenly has a lot more subscribers?? Where did all of you come from?? OWO 
> 
> Lol, thank you for joining!! I really appreciate all the interest in vampire Keith, I'm glad we have this in common ^^ Thanks goes out to @swordiris again this chapter, who I definitely borrowed Keith listening to Bullet For My Valentine from. If you guys haven't seen her klance art yet (but you probably all have), she is amazing so please give her lots of love!! 
> 
> Also, 'Kahoot' is an online quiz game that some teachers use in their class to quiz all their students at once. It becomes a competition of sorts to see who can answer accurately + the fastest, gaining points with each correct answer and falling into a rank. 
> 
> Happy reading :)

“Kill me.”

“Nope, no can do.”

“I know my immeasurable beauty will be a loss to this world, but the world will have to carry on without me.”

“Lance, stop being dramatic. It wasn’t that bad.”

Pidge snorts, feet propped on the dash and hands fiddling with the radio. “It was pretty bad.”

“Pidge, please.” Hunk shoots them a disapproving look, but his mouth is quirked. “Lance just admitted to his alleged stalker that he found him ‘dark, handsome, and good at soccer.’ Try to be a little more sensitive here.”

His voice cracks around the half-formed smile towards the end, and he and Pidge simultaneously burst into laughter. Lance pushes up from his prostrate position in the backseat, smacking them both behind the head with his shark pillow that Hunk always keeps in his car for him.

“Ow, hey, Lance I’m driving!”

“You. Two. Are. The. _Worst_!” Lance says, switching to only smacking Pidge instead. Pidge wrestles the pillow from his hands though, and Lance slumps back with a petulant pout, crossing his arms. “Your best friend statuses are revoked.”

“Aww, Lance, don’t be like that,” Hunk reaches back with one hand to pat his knee soothingly. Lance jerks his knee away, feeling sulky. “It really wasn’t that bad. Keith didn’t look bothered by it.”

“Oh, he definitely wasn’t bothered by it.” Pidge settles on a channel playing Ariana Grande, because despite being a heathen who likes to tease him and hates “generic pop,” they know Lance’s therapy music by heart. “And now we know he’s not trying to kill you either, though that was farfetched to begin with.”

“We know nothing, Pidge, nothing!”

“Lance, really? Did you not see the way he looked at you?”

“What way?”

Pidge levels him with a pointed look through the rearview mirror. “For how much you flirt you really can’t tell when someone’s actually interested in you, huh?”

Lance feels his brain short-circuit when the words sink in. No way. No. Just. Nu-uh. “He—he’s not—!”

“I like Keith,” Hunk pipes up, rapidly doing damage control. “We didn’t talk much but he seemed like a nice guy when he helped me with the satellite today.”

Lance moans. “Nooooo Hunk, please don’t vouch for him.” If someone passes the Hunk-Approval test, then Lance will have no justifiable reservations against them. It’s the rule of law in their friend group, because although Hunk has the biggest heart out of the three of them, he’s also the most discerning of someone’s character.

At a red light, Hunk shifts around in the driver’s seat, regarding Lance critically. “Lance, why are you so against him? Like yeah, you guys got off to a bad start and had a few coincidental run-ins, but from what I’ve seen and heard, it seems like he just wants to be your friend.”

Lance chews on his lips, feeling slightly cornered. In truth, he knows he’s being a little unfair to Keith. He knows that the scenario of another high school student trying to murder him is absurdly irrational, and he knows that it’s not uncommon to run into someone you know in the city. Plus, Keith had seemed genuine when he explained what had happened the first night they met, and he had sounded almost desperate when he asked Lance if they could “start over.” And honestly, Lance would’ve given in that day, except…

“He makes me anxious. He stares too much.”

Always, in each class period they shared, Lance felt Keith looking at him. Whether he was sitting right behind him or from across the room, Lance would feel the column of his neck burn. It wasn’t necessarily an unpleasant feeling, but it was… unnerving, to say the least. He didn’t know what to make of it still, only that it reminded him of the dream he kept having every night — the shadow pressing behind him and the red against his eyes.

“Maybe if you get to know him, you’ll feel less anxious around him,” Hunk says, giving him an encouraging smile before turning back around, driving forward with the green light. Pidge smiles, too, a teasing gleam behind their glasses. 

“You’re attracted to him anyway. It’s a win-win situation.”

Lance sputters. “I— he’s _objectively_ attractive! And he’s not as good looking as me, all right?!”

That’s a lie, that’s the biggest lie Lance has ever told.

Pidge ignores his protests, still smirking. “He could probably benchpress you,” they say, nonchalantly, like that observation isn’t a direct arrow to Lance’s heart. 

“ _No_.”

“Singlehandedly.”

Lance muffles a squeal, face on fire. “How could you put that thought in my head, Pidge?”

“I regret it myself,” Pidge deadpans as Hunk scolds Lance for floundering in his seat. (“You’re going to get tangled in the seatbelt again and we are _not_ cutting you out this time!”)

Eventually, Hunk and Pidge get caught up discussing the logistics of their robotics club, giving Lance the time and space to cool off. Slumping against the window, he counts the street lights as they beam past, trying to ignore any more thoughts of the boy who’s somehow managed to carve a permanent space in the back of his mind.

 

.

.

.

 

At least Lance can forget all about Keith during dance practice.

It’s Sunday rehearsal, and he’s been at the studio for most of the afternoon. Thankfully, with Coran being the ballet master overseeing this year’s _Nutcracker_ production, he hasn’t had much time to let his mind wander. Coran gets manically excited during the holiday season, and that energy keeps everyone on their toes.

There’s an audience during rehearsal today: younger students playing minor roles sitting in to observe, along with other production managers and teachers. Their presence both excites and distresses Lance. He loves performing in front of people, but only when he’s fully confident in a routine, and even then his anxiety gets the better of him sometimes.

Some days are better than others, and thankfully today is one of the better ones.

“Okay, Lance, I’m gonna stop you there for a second.” The music ceases and Coran dashes onto the center of the floor. Lance drops his stance, letting his arms and legs relax for the nth critique that’s about to come. Millie, playing Clara beside him, sends him a supportive smile.

“You went hand, hand, and then this!” Coran mashes his hands against his face to demonstrate, the movement comically quick. Lance bites back a laugh, realizing the error he made. “Right? It was much too fast. Take it hand, then hand, and then you realize, ‘Oh, my face isn’t wooden anymore!’ Understand? And when you see her, make it much bigger! It would be beautiful if you could add a proper slide as well, which is of course more difficult, but you’ll pull it off.”

Lance nods, cataloguing Coran’s suggestions to heart as he moves back to his original position, lying down. He half-considers falling asleep right there, every muscle tingling from exertion after over an hour of relentless drilling. But while he may possess a lazy bone (or several) in his body, he more than makes up for it with his tenacity and ambition.

He’s wanted the starring role for so long, after all. He’s not going to mess it up.

Coran works him to the bone. By the time practice is over, Lance feels like his entire body’s made of gelatin, barely held together. He wearily pulls on his hoodie, checking his phone to see that his mom had texted him.

_Baby could you pick up some groceries on your way home? Your dad and I will be home late again, car pile up brought more patients in. Make sure Liam doesn’t just eat ice cream for dinner._

Lance frowns, hoping nothing serious had happened to any of the patients. He types a short text back, thinking of the grocery store nearby.

“Good job today, my boy.” Coran walks up, clapping an enthusiastic hand on Lance’s shoulder. Lance almost collapses beneath the weight of it. “Despite my criticisms, everyone and myself were extremely impressed with your progress. You’ll be perfection by showtime!”

“Thanks, Coran,” Lance says, quietly elated by the compliment. After thanking the other production staff for coming and saying bye to Millie and his fellow dancers, he heads out, sticking to the main street the whole way through.

No more risks in dark alleyways now.

Once he’s at the store, Lance shops quickly for the ingredients he needs. Liam and Luna have been begging for _sopa de pollo_ recently, and Lance likes to indulge them when Mama and Papa aren’t home. Liam’s not eating a whole tub of rocky road ice cream again though, no matter how much he begs. There can’t be a second rendition of the Throw-Up Disaster.

“Do we still have chicken broth…” Lance mutters to himself, pushing his cart briskly past the different aisles, gazing up at the signs to check for the right one. When he skims past the frozen food section, he spots a tell-tale mullet in the distance.

_No way._

Lance jerks to a stop and backtracks, heart rate notching up as he gets closer and closer to the suspect. Yup, it’s definitely Keith behind the refrigerator glass — not even the film of condensation can obscure how good he looks, dressed in a simple, fitted sweatshirt and black joggers, looking like a full-course _meal_ —

_Stay objective Lance! Objective!!_

“Hey!” he shouts, swallowing his nervousness in the need to confront yet another coincidental run-in. Keith seems to twitch in response, poking his head out from behind the door while shutting it slowly. He looks nervous, somehow, hands hovering between his cart handle and the fridge door, like he’s not sure what to do with his body. It’s such a contrast to his usual broody and confident demeanor that Lance would find it funny if he didn’t have more pressing questions to answer.

“Are you sure you’re not following me?” he asks once they’re cart to cart, straight to the point. He narrows his eyes at Keith, holding up a bundle of carrots like a baseball bat semi-threateningly. 

“Wha— no, I’m not— I mean—” Keith’s floundering for his words, which makes him extra sus, in Lance’s opinion. “I’m not following you! I actually do need to grocery shop right now, so. Here I am.” He gestures to the frozen food aisle with his hand for emphasis. Lance traces the movement, following the line of his arm to his broad shoulders and chest, tapering down to trim hips… 

 _Dios_ , he really can’t stay objective for the life of him.

“You need twenty boxes of jumbo sized sausages?” he drawls, trying to maintain his facade of cool by quirking a brow. Keith looks momentarily stunned by his question, before glancing down at his hand, holding onto said box of jumbo sized sausages. There’s another twenty already thrown haphazardly into his cart.

“Uh, yeah. There’s a…” Keith pauses for a beat, jaw clicking minutely. “Sausage party. My brother’s hosting. Next week.”

_Sausage party? What the hell._

Lance feels laughter bubbling inside him, because he’s ninety-percent sure Keith just made that up on the spot. Somehow, though, that idea doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. Maybe it’s because he’s gradually dropped his ill-founded prejudices against Keith over the past week, and maybe it’s because of the way Keith looks right now, like he got caught with his hand down the cookie jar. There’s no malicious intent there, only a boyish innocence that Lance didn’t know Keith could possess, and the discovery perches pleasantly inside his chest. 

“So, you’re not here to kill me?” Lance asks, just to mess with him. Keith looks equal parts confused and horrified at the suggestion.

“What, no, of course not.”

“You’re not gonna skin my beautiful face off and wear it as a mask?”

“What the fuck—”

“Just kidding!” Lance sings, tossing the bundle of carrots he was wielding back into his cart. He props his elbow onto the handle, rests his chin in his hand, and gives in to the bemused smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a strange one, Kogane, but I’ll believe you this time.”

He watches Keith deflate, a relieved expression flickering past that Lance can’t quite place.

“Not as strange as your imagination,” Keith says with a small smile of his own. “Why would your first conclusion of me be that I’m a stalker trying to kill you?”

“Hey, if you watch Criminal Minds as religiously as I do, you’d be paranoid, too. Plus, I gotta be extra careful to protect the goods, you know?” Lance points to himself with a flourish, clearly indicating that his face and figure are the aforementioned ‘goods.’

Keith, however, doesn’t take the hint. “What goods?” he asks, and Lance can tell that he’s being purposefully obtuse with that smirk on his face. Lance doesn’t get why that sends a faint thrill through him, so he elects to run away instead.

“Wow, rude! Bye!” He starts pushing his cart out of the aisle, furiously ignoring the breathy laugh Keith lets out as he follows after him, calling out, “hey, wait up!”

And somehow, just like that, they end up grocery shopping together.

Keith helps Lance track down the chicken broth along with the other ingredients on his list, and they go through the store side by side. They move easily around each other, Keith maintaining a close but careful distance even in the narrow aisle ways, as if he’s being extra mindful of Lance’s space. The whole process is surprisingly… comfortable, pointing out the items to each other and grabbing whatever the other needs. Lance notices that Keith only picks up the prepackaged meals, like 2 minute lasagnas or cans of microwavable soup. He finds it strange and catches himself worrying about the other’s eating habits, but he opts not to ask any prying questions.

At the checkout line though, Keith nearly gives him a heart attack.

“What are you doing?” Lance asks, watching Keith pull out his credit card. Keith’s already paid for his lot; he shouldn’t even be standing in the check out lane with Lance right now.

“Paying for your groceries?” Keith says, like that’s _normal_ , like that’s not a big deal and something only friends and families and significant others do for each other — _none_ of which describe whatever relationship is going on between the two of them right now.

Lance can’t let this happen.

“Oh, _hell no_ you are not gonna pull this chivalry schtick on me! Put that card away!” He swats at Keith’s hand, shoving away the shiny, platinum card and pulling out his own debit. He quickly pays the bill, feeling flustered but maintaining his glare on Keith so that he won’t try anything else. Honestly, how dare he; acting like such a gentleman and making Lance’s heart flail somersaults.

“Your boyfriend’s sweet, young man,” the old lady at the cash register says, smiling as she finishes packing all his items into the paper bag. Lance chokes on air.

“No, m’am, this is strictly planetonic— I mean platonic— I mean, we’re not even—!”

“Thank you,” Keith interrupts, taking the bag off the service counter. His eyes look suspiciously crinkled with laughter. “Have a good night.”

He walks off with both his and Lance’s groceries in his hands, leaving Lance no time to further convince the cash register lady that they are definitely _not_ together.

“Hey, stop, I can hold my own bag,” Lance says, chasing after him. He takes his groceries from Keith’s hand, clutching the bag in front of him protectively, feeling a sudden rush of shyness. Are his cheeks red? Can Keith see them in the darkness of the parking lot?

Lance tucks his face away as Keith stares at him curiously, unaware that his actions just now had caused Lance to go through a whirlwind of emotions. He almost wishes Keith had just turned out to be a creepy stalker. That would’ve made this so much easier.

Lance swallows, jostling his bag of groceries closer to his body for a distraction, for courage.

“You said you wanted to start over, right?”

At those words, Keith’s whole body startles, eyes blinking silver in the moonlight. There’s so much earnest hopefulness inside them that Lance almost can’t bare it.

He takes a deep breath.

“Hi, I’m Lance Espinosa-Méndez. My favorite color is red. I’m not a fan of mullets or diet-stalkers, but recently I’ve had a change of heart. Nice to meet you.”

He shoves one hand out for a handshake, willing himself to hold eye contact with Keith who still looks a little dazed with surprise. Eventually, Keith takes his hand, fingerless gloves sliding pleasantly against Lance’s palm. When he speaks, it’s a low, rich sound, tingling through their connected hands and down Lance’s spine.

“Hi Lance, I’m Keith Kogane. My favorite color is blue, and I may have a mullet but I’m _not_ a diet-stalker, whatever that is.” His lips tilt into a smile, the kind that makes Lance’s face hot and his stomach twist. It’s nice. It’s real nice.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, too.”

 

— - - -

 

One would think that after that, Lance’s life would get much easier. But, no. The next day, he regrets ever deciding that he’d give Keith a second chance.

If Keith beating his chemistry quiz score hadn’t already been embarrassing enough, Lance finds out in fourth period that Keith had bested him on their biology exam, too. Now this was just plain unacceptable. Lance had a reputation to uphold and a mission to carry out. The very purpose of his high school existence was in jeopardy!

“Will you _stop_ doing that?”

He approaches Keith after class in the hallway, and — despite the obvious glare on his face — Keith looks pleased to see him.

“Doing what?” Keith asks, an odd light in his eyes that makes his stupidly attractive face even more stupidly attractive. Lance still can’t figure out the color of his eyes, only that they’re really pretty and really freaking distracting and _definitely not_ the reason why Lance cornered him. 

“Okay, listen. Ever since freshman year when Billy Hargrove told me that ballet dancers aren’t good at anything except splitting open their legs, I’ve made it my life’s mission to prove him wrong by getting the highest test score in every class and _you_ , Keith, are ruining that!”

“I’m sorry?” Keith says, looking not very sorry at all. In fact, he’s smiling, the absolute nerve of him.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m changing your status from former ex-stalker to new arch rival! I’m kicking your ass on the next exam!”

Keith narrows his eyes, his smile slipping into a challenging smirk. Lance hates himself for following the bow of it. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, you’re fucking _on_ , Mullet.”

Before Keith can retort, a voice from the crowd shouts, “Lance, there you are!”

It’s Pidge, skipping over with Hunk right behind them. Both of them are sporting knowing grins that Lance does not like the look of one bit. 

“Oh, hey Keith, wanna eat lunch with us? Hunk brought brownies today.”

Lance gapes at Pidge as they casually invite Keith to eat with them, especially with Hunk’s sacred brownies present. Pidge would never offer to share those with anyone, not even with Lance. It’s always a fight to the bitter end between the two of them when it comes to Hunk’s baked treats. Why would they throw Keith into that equation?

“Thanks, but I can’t. Got a meeting with the soccer coach.”

It takes a second for Lance to register Keith’s answer, but when he does, he blurts out the first thought that comes to mind.

“Did you join the team?!”

Keith looks at him in surprise, then amusement, and Lance realizes just how embarrassingly eager he had sounded. “I— I mean, not that I care,” he tacks on at the end, skin flushing hot. Keith smiles at his reaction, a slow, tempting curve.

“I did.”

His body shifts, angling towards Lance, and somehow he seems closer than when they first started, as if drawn into orbit. Lance feels his breath catch in his throat, barely breathing, until Keith breaks the spell.

“I’ll see you around,” he says, walking away with a short wave. Hunk and Pidge wave back, and as Keith disappears around the corner, Lance realizes with muted bewilderment that the flutter in his chest feels something akin to disappointment.

For the first time, he wishes Keith could’ve stayed with him.

 

— - - -

 

That’s how their “rivalry” starts, he supposes.

He calls it that in his head and out loud, because admitting it to be a “friendship” — _or a cruuuush_ , Pidge insists — would be too much for him to handle. His body would literally combust on the spot. Besides, what Keith and him have got going here? It totally is a rivalry in a large respect. Ask anyone at the school about the Kahoot Incident, for example. Principal Miller’s still in the throes of shock after seeing one of her top ten students and the star transfer both at detention.

“If you had just admitted defeat, _KnifeMan_ , we wouldn’t be in this situation! My spotless record is tarnished because of you!”

“Why would I admit defeat when I was beating you by ten points, _BOOBS69_? I was winning fair-and-square!”

“ _Lies!_ Your edgy fingerless gloves were giving you an unfair advantage!”

“How the _hell_ would wearing _gloves_ give me an advantage?! Maybe your fingers are just slow as fuck!”

“You tell that to my fingers when they’re shoved up your—!”

Anyway.

The whole ordeal was very traumatizing for witnesses, but Lance supposes he and Keith bonded through it. Grudgingly. Against his will.

It gets even worse the next day, when Keith has free time to sit with Lance, Hunk, and Pidge during lunch, fitting in almost too easily for Lance’s liking. They’re passing around left over Halloween candy, spoils of Luna and Liam’s successful raid of the entire Garrison district. Lance still isn’t sure how they accomplished the whole feat in one night and carried back over thirty pounds of candy each.

“Here.” He hands Keith a Kit-Kat, a peace offering of sorts. He had beaten Keith’s history test score this morning, a loss that Keith seemed to take especially hard since he kept griping under his breath “but I _saw_ this happen” for the rest of the class period. Lance thought that was a weird thing to say, but he didn’t think much of it and chose to bask in his own victory.

“Thanks,” Keith says, taking the Kit-Kat. He then proceeds to rip open the foil and take one horrifying, blasphemous bite into the middle of the chocolate bar.

Lance screams.

“ _What the fuck_ are you doing that’s not how you eat a Kit-Kat!”

“What? Why not?” Keith looks at him with genuine bewilderment, mouth falling open and eyes going round. It’d be cute if Lance’s heart wasn’t breaking in two at the sight of the mauled Kit-Kat bar in his hand.

“Because it’s _wrong_!”

“There’s no right or wrong way to eat a chocolate bar!”

“Yes there is there’s two columns and you’re supposed to break one off and eat them one at a time how could you not—!”

Hunk and Pidge do nothing but watch and take pictures during the whole argument. Traitors.

Despite Lance’s best efforts to kick Keith out of the group after the Kit-Kat Debacle, Keith winds up eating with them almost everyday. And it’s terrible, because Lance actually starts getting to _know_ him. Like, on top of being genetically blessed, Keith had the audacity of being born with a sense of humor as well. Lance finds that out the hard way when he brings up the new Wolverine movie one day and mentions how obviously hot Hugh Jackman is in it. For some reason, Pidge calls him out for being a furry at that, so naturally Lance had to defend himself.

“I’m not a furry!”

Pidge is unimpressed. “Lance, your sexual awakening was grown up Nala from the Lion King.”

“Is it my fault they make the lions sexy?” Lance asks, turning his nose skyward indignantly and reaching for his water bottle.

“Mine was Jasmine,” Hunk says.

“Mine was Jabba the Hutt.”

Lance inhales his water.

“I’m kidding,” Keith says, thumping his back, his expression too blank to tell if he was actually kidding or not. “It was actually Han Solo.”

“That’s—” Lance wheezes, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He settles for trying not to choke to death instead, the knowledge that Keith is attracted to roguish space mercenaries (or gelatinous aliens) bouncing in his head like alarm bells.

See? Terrible.

Keith never says much, but when he does it’s always something that draws Lance’s attention or catches him off guard. He goes from being annoyingly predictable — like how he never asks questions first and acts before he thinks — to pleasantly unexpected the next, like his taste in music. Lance had caught sight of his music library on his laptop one time, and while there was the anticipated collection of rock and heavy metal bands like Muse and Bullet For My Valentine, there was also a considerable number of jazz and old classics like Duke Ellington, Frank Sinatra, and Edith Piaf. 

Despite their differing tastes, they find common ground in 80s music and The Weeknd, and find new bands through each other as well. They start sharing headphones while waiting for Hunk and Pidge during lunch, or on the occasions Lance swallows his pride and asks to study together, going over chemistry calculations that Keith admittedly is much better at. When they’re not arguing or trading song recs, they come up with dumb competitions like “who can dissect their frog in biology the fastest” or “if you can find which toilet stall I’m at inside this giant ass school before I finish shitting then you win.”

It’s dumb. It’s a lot of fun. And yeah, maybe it is a friendship after all.

That isn’t to say Keith doesn’t still make him anxious.

Keith still stares a lot, if not even more now that he thinks he can get away with it. His gaze makes Lance's skin obnoxiously heat up every time, and he does other strange things too that make Lance think twice. Like how he never actually _eats_ during lunch unless one of them in the group shares something with him. Or how he gets grumpy when the sun’s out, becoming lethargic and more snarky like a cat does.

He also has this tendency of… breathing in? Whenever Lance is standing near or sitting down beside him. It’s slightly unnerving, though not entirely unpleasant. It makes Lance squirm when he feels the brush of hot air against his neck or shoulder. When he asked Keith if it was because he smelled funny one time, Keith had turned his head away as if he was embarrassed and said that he liked the smell of Lance’s cologne.

Lance doesn’t wear cologne though. He only ever has time in the morning to crunch through his skin care routine, apply a light layer of body lotion, and run out the door.

But he doesn’t poke for more answers, accepting that Keith simply has some odd habits like everyone does.

 

— - - -

 

Thanksgiving break comes at a much needed time.

Lance sleeps through the first couple days of break, exhausted from exams, paper writing, and additional dance lessons he decided to take involving jazz and hip-hop. He wanted to expand his contemporary repertoire a bit, apart from only ballet. There's still the second round of auditions for Juilliard to worry about after all, and he wanted to be prepared for anything.

Teresa doesn’t make it home for this holiday, but Ari does, bringing back tales of his archeological adventures abroad and a renewed hatred towards capitalism. It’s good to have his older brother back, an additional hand to wrestle with the twins. Ari and him talk late into the nights, like old times, and Lance has fun ribbing him about the girl he met in Vietnam, someone who Ari thinks he’d like to bring to the states someday.

Mama and Papa volunteer for extra shifts the day before Thanksgiving, so Lance preps food with Ari while the evening news plays in the background. It’s the usual holiday mush: comments on Black Friday sales and bad jokes about being disowned because of politics during Thanksgiving meals. Halfway through the broadcast though, a breaking news report pops up, and as Lance listens to the story, he wonders if that’s the reason why Mama and Papa are stuck at the hospital past 6PM again.

“Mama, I saw the news this evening,” Ari brings up later that night when they’re all finally together to eat. Papa had told them to go ahead without them, but nowadays it’s rare for most of the family to be together, so they had decided to wait. “Did you and Papa get that patient they were talking about? Is she okay?”

“You know we can’t discuss patient information with you, Ari,” Mama says, smiling fondly. “If you watched the news that’s all you need to know.”

“What happened?” Luna asks, passing around the sweet potatoes while flicking Liam’s head for being too bent over his food. 

“Apparently a woman was attacked in her apartment and a neighbor found her bleeding out on the floor. She kept talking about being attacked by a vampire when they brought her out, but the paramedic being interviewed said she was probably just in shock from all the blood loss. Wondering if that was true.”

Liam snorts, pushing away his cauliflower. “That’s silly, everyone knows vampires are just myths.”

“Oh yeah, then why did you come to my room that one time saying you had a nightmare about them?”

“Luna, you said you’d keep that a secret!”

Papa laughs, telling the twins to settle down before turning his attention to Ari. “Didn’t one of your friends conduct research on vampire folklore when you were in Malaysia together? I remember thinking that was fascinating, the glow in the dark woman with her organs spilling out part.”

“Ewww, Dad!” Luna whines, and the whole family starts talking over each other, back to normal once more.

Lance watches on in amusement, until suddenly his phone vibrates in his pocket. When he sees who sent him a text, his heart skips a beat.

**[Kit-Kat Keith]: Save me from this dinner I’m bored to death.**

Lance doesn’t manage to suppress his puff of laughter, and Mama looks at him disapprovingly. “Lance, what did we say about phones at the table?”

“Sorry, Mama.” Lance puts his phone away, but he can’t stop smiling. Luna shoots him a suspicious squint, but thankfully she decides not to be a nosy gossipmonger for the night.

After dinner, the twins are on dish duty, so Lance rushes up to his room and locks the door, flinging himself onto his bed. He bounces around for a few minutes, deliberating. Eventually, he gathers up the courage, scrolls down his contact list, and presses the call button. 

“Lance?”

Keith’s voice takes on a husky quality through the receiver when he picks up, and Lance kind of hates himself for almost rolling off the bed from the tingly thrill that goes through him at the sound of it. They’ve texted on and off since exchanging phone numbers, mostly through the group chat with Hunk and Pidge, but they’ve never called each other before. Why does it feel so different?

“You said you needed saving, right? Well, here I am, your knight in shining armor," he jokes, trying to play it cool. He bites his lips nervously though, wondering if he got too eager.

"Wow, I'm saved," Keith deadpans, followed by a release of breath that sounds something like laughter. “Thanks. I was able to excuse myself.”

Lance settles comfortably onto his bed, grabbing a pillow to anchor himself from flailing around. “Was it a boring family dinner?”

“Something like that,” Keith says, and Lance wonders if he’s smiling, if he’s eating all right.

They talk for a long time after that, Lance losing track of the clock as he listens to Keith’s voice. Lately, he’s come to discover that Keith’s really talkative and expressive when there’s a topic he’s passionate about, like the Roswell conspiracy he’s explaining to Lance right now. It’s endearing, the way his excitement colors his usually sullen tone, and Lance revels in it. Keith rarely talks about himself or his family, so every detail Lance finds out is something he pays extra care and attention to.

“Did you see the news today? About the woman who says she was attacked by a vampire.”

It’s nearing midnight, and Lance’s eyes are falling shut, but he wants to stay on the phone with Keith a bit longer. 

There’s a pause before Keith responds. “Yeah... Did that scare you?”

“Mm, not really,” Lance hums, smiling into his pillow at the concern he hears in Keith’s voice. “Like, I’m worried about the lady, but I doubt it was a vampire. Those aren’t real after all.”

“How are you so sure?”

Lance sighs dramatically, tossing his arm over his eyes. “Keith, don’t tell me you believe in vampires, too.”

Keith makes a noise of derision. “ _You’re_ the one who said you believe in werewolves and mermaids. Why don’t you believe in vampires, too?”

“Vampires aren’t real but werewolves and mermaids definitely are. That’s just fact.”

“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Lance laughs at how genuinely offended Keith sounds at his response. He can almost see his disgruntled face, jaw clenched and brows crinkled severely. “Oh, so you’re team bloodsucker?”

“All the way,” Keith says without hesitation. Lance decides to humor him, feeling fond.

“Well, I guess I’m team bloodsucker, too, even though I don’t believe in them. Middle school me was pretty in love with Edward Cullen.”

“ _Him?_ ”

“Do you think 'Twilight' was on to something? About vampires sparkling? That probably means their dicks sparkle too, right?”

“They definitely do not,” Keith says, sounding disgusted. His adamant disapproval makes Lance laugh, and the lightness loosens his brain-to-mouth filter, making him feel a bit more bold.

“Yeah, I agree. I don’t think that’s a helpful kink. Like, why not make them heat up instead, that’d be—”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith all but growls. The sound sends a pulse through Lance’s belly, making him squirm and shut up. Keith sounds warm and amused when he speaks again. “You’re rambling like you’re tired. You should get some sleep.”

 _I think I miss you though,_ Lance almost blurts, but luckily he’s not sleepy enough to let unbidden confessions escape him yet.

“K, I’ll see you at school, Keith. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving. Sleep well, Lance." He's smiling. Lance is sure of it this time. "Good night.”

He hangs up.

Lance drops his hand holding the phone to his ear, turning onto his side. Outside, snow is falling, lacing the window with frost. Lance struggles to stay awake in order to get ready for bed, swinging his feet onto the cold wooden floor, pinpricks against his toes. He’ll have to remember to turn up the thermostat downstairs, or tell Ari to do it for him, less they all freeze tonight.

Despite the cold, though, his chest feels warm.

 

.

.

.

 

On the other side of the city, a window to an apartment shatters, someone crawling inside. The resident living there wakes with a start and turns on the light, reaching for his gun by his bedside.

Before his fingers even touch the metal though, it’s already too late.

A pair of blood red eyes is the last thing he sees before it all goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens? ;)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed reading! A little anecdote about a detail in this chapter: "Hide and Shit" is a game one of my friends I met at study abroad told me about. Apparently when he was in high school, he and friends would text each other if one of them was taking a shit at school, and the rest of them would have to find him before he was done. Even if they were in the middle of class, they all collectively had to get out of class somehow to find the person pooping. I thought this was the dumbest, weirdest game I've ever heard and the type of tomfoolery Keith and Lance would get into, so I had to insert it in somehow, even if it was literally only a half-sentence mention, lol. 
> 
> ANYWAY. Thank you for reading!! If you'd like, let me know in the comments what you think ^^ I'm worried this chapter was a bit slow, but things will pick up soon. Unfortunately, finals are starting for me in about a week, so I won't be able to update until they're done. I hope you stick around <3


	4. forgetfulness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry!!!!! I'm done with finals and everything, but I was so burned out afterwards that it took me a while to get back into writing. Hopefully I can maintain a more regular updating schedule after this, since I graduated college and my only goal now is to study for grad school. 
> 
> Thank you to those who have stuck around!! Hope you guys enjoy reading! 
> 
> P.S. thanks again to @swordiris for the Edward Cullen jokes. I thought they were hysterical so I tried to fit one in, lol.

Keith’s dying.

All right, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. He’s not usually this melodramatic, but the stress has been getting to him lately, and it’s mostly Lance’s fault (if not entirely his fault).

Getting to know the human boy for the past few weeks has been unexpected in the best and worst possible ways. Best because Lance is everything Keith imagined he would be but also so much more. Worst because Keith’s now constantly distracted and restless and—

“Pining, is the word I believe you’re looking for,” Regris says, somehow sounding both immeasurably bored and terrifically amused. Keith has no idea how he came to that conclusion when Keith had clearly been _complaining_ about Lance for the past thirty minutes as they were sparring.

How does pining equate to Keith detailing the way Lance drives him crazy with his overactive imagination and ridiculous competitive streak? Like how that one time he lured Keith into a pudding eating competition and they wound up snorting chocolate out of their noses for the rest of the day. Or how they had landed in detention for the third time in a week because Lance had challenged him to a freestyle race fully-clothed, and half the senior class had broken into the swimming pool with them to watch. Keith can’t even remember what the stakes had been, or why he had forgotten he had superhuman abilities to begin with and could have easily beaten Lance’s scrawny ass.

Lance has a tendency of doing that. Making Keith forget he isn’t human.

After all, the only thing that matters whenever they’re together is the contentment Keith feels of just being close to him. Even when they’re competing. Even when they’re arguing over something benign and trivial. Keith instigates half of it anyway, because he likes the bantering and fighting and everything in between. It gives him a rush unlike anything else, especially when he’s able to make Lance laugh, full-body and breathless and warm as can be.

He didn’t even mention to Regris how pretty Lance looks every day, or how mouthwatering he smells first thing in the morning.

“It’s the look on your face,” Regris explains, aiming a swing at Keith’s jaw that Keith ducks under easily. Either Keith’s getting better or Regris is messing with him. “Why not ask this human boy of yours on a date?”

Yup, definitely messing with him. Keith almost trips coming out of his tuck, like some child who’s just started combat training. He rights himself with a scowl and a flash of embarrassment, looking away to the side. “I’m not—I’m not trying to _court_ him. I just. I want to be friends.”

 _Smooth. That sounded real convincing there,_ Keith’s own voice taunts him obnoxiously. Regris thankfully spares him more grief.

“Well then, if that’s the case Master Keith, I’m here to train you, not counsel you on your nonexistent love life. Now please, _focus_.”

Regris unsheathes a blade from his sleeve and hurls it at Keith, directly toward his head. Without looking, Keith catches the handle midair and flips it with a flick of his wrist, thrusting the knife back in Regris’ direction. Regris dodges it by a hair’s width.

“I told you to drop the ‘Master,’ Regris,” he says, smirking. He may be distracted but knives are still his forte. He won’t let his retainers best him in that respect.

“My apologies… Keith.” Regris smiles, tugging the blade free from where it had lodged into the wall. He walks over to place it in Keith’s outstretched hand. “I see that you’re improving steadily. Soon there will be nothing left for me or any of the other Blades to teach you.”

“Not if Kolivan has a say in it.”

Regris offers a sympathetic grimace. “Despite what you may think, Kolivan _is_ proud of you. It’s unfortunate he’s unable to express it.”

“Kolivan telling me he cares?” Keith scoffs, unwrapping his boxing bandages. They were done for the day, sunlight rising through the windows. “I’d rather he not.”

Out of all his retainers, Kolivan’s the coldest to him. As the leader of the Blades charged with the duty of training Marmora’s successor, Keith can’t remember a single instance where Kolivan's shown him a shred of approval or leniency. Thace had tried to vouch for Kolivan’s acerbity once — and to reassure Keith that it was not his own failing that brought upon the behavior — but in a way Keith already knew the reason why. 

He remembers his mother’s death, after all.

He remembers the way Kolivan had grieved as if he had lost his own child.

They pack up and rearrange the gym in comfortable silence, Regris tossing him a blood pack for him to drain thirstily. The residual ache in his body reminds him of why he was more tired than usual this morning, falling out of bed at 4am for his normal sparring session with Regris. The business dinner last night had exhausted him, and it didn’t help that the Covenant was in a frenzy over the loose vampire that had nearly exposed their kind on national TV. They’ve had accidents like that before, where a stray vampire would lose themselves to bloodlust and break from the pack, but they’ve always managed to clean a situation up before it reached the authorities.

None of the factions knew which vampire was responsible, or how normal civilians were tipped off to the attack before the Balmera faction was able to cover it up. The whole incident was certainly an outlier.

Lance had kept him up too, though for different reasons. Getting that phone call at dinner and hearing his voice was like a shot of espresso for Keith, waking him up instantly. Everything else faded into the background until it was just Lance’s voice, bright and airy through the receiver, joking with Keith and asking him about conspiracies and telling him vampires aren’t real, the irony.

Keith still can’t believe Lance said he liked Edward Cullen, too. Keith had only tolerated that book series when it first came out but now he wanted to hunt down every copy and burn them all. Really, _Edward Cullen?_ That fruity, sparkly schmuck of a vampire?

Keith had gone to bed shortly after, the usual darkness of his mind refracting into dreams of Lance. In the dream, however, Lance was holding someone else’s hand. When they both turned around, Keith realized with horror that it was Cullen, smirking at Keith as if he’d won. Before Keith could even react, he snatched Lance into his arms and ran into the forest, far from reach and sight.

Keith had woken up in a cold sweat.

“What are you thinking about so critically?”

Regris sits down next to him on the bench, gently knocking his head with a water bottle before handing it to him. Keith bumps his shoulder against his, scowling lightly. Out of the main division of the Blades, Regris is the youngest, roughly 300 years old give or take a couple decades, so naturally they get along the best. Keith considers him like a second brother, especially in the absence of Shiro, and often goes to him for advice instead.

“Regris, how did you…” he starts, crumpling the water bottle in his hands. Why was it so hard to ask for advice now?

“How did I…?” Regris patiently prompts.

“You know. With Alana. How did you get her to like…” Keith gestures vaguely at his form. “You?”

“I’m going to assume you didn’t mean that gesture as an insult,” Regris says, amused. “We’ve been married for nearly a century, Keith. That’s well past ‘like,’ don’t you think?”

Keith grumbles, annoyed that his ears feel hot. “Yeah, well. I want to know about the beginning.”

“And this has nothing to do with the boy you want to be ‘friends’ with?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Humor me, Regris.”

Regris laughs, his ears flicking up behind his hair. As a descendant of lynx-hybrids, Regris didn’t possess full vampire attributes. He was smaller in build, had cat-like ears and a sensitive nose, and possessed the tell-tale amber eyes. He could see through solid objects and even someone’s secrets if he concentrated hard enough, but the lynx aspect of his heritage was so diluted that the ability only worked on occasion.

Ever since Keith’s mother’s leadership, the Marmora faction has been taking in more hybrids over the past few centuries. Those shunned by one side of their species and needed a place to stay. Those who wished for a sense of belonging, for guidance or for purpose. Alana had found Regris in the shadows of Mount Áhkká, alone and on the verge of death, and brought him back with her. He joined their faction shortly after.

“I tried to impress her, so that she’d look my way. Much like what you’re doing with this human boy of yours.”

“How’d you go about it?”

“Well.” Regris’s expression shifts into something softer, more open. “One time I fought a bear for her.”

“You what.” Keith’s eyes widen, making Regris laugh again.

“She was not impressed in the slightest, to say the least. In fact, she took the bear’s side.”

Keith snorts, thinking of his mother’s former bodyguard, headstrong and fiery and always willing to help Keith sneak out of the house. “That sounds like Alana.”

“Yes.” Regris twists the black band around his finger unconsciously, the tone of his voice gone quiet and wistful. “She’s always challenged me, but in the best of ways.” 

 _Like what Lance does to me,_ Keith thinks, the words echoing inside of him. Lance has challenged him to something new — something strange and idiotic and exhilarating — every day since they first met, and Keith wouldn’t trade the world for anything different, anything less.

Nothing else has made him feel this happy and alive in ages. Maybe it’s okay for him to be hopeful for once.

“We’re going to Starbucks,” he says, standing up. He turns his head away so that Regris can’t see his face. 

“Oh? What’s the occasion?”

“I’m tired and want bad coffee.” _And you deserve a pumpkin spice latte._

“I see.” Regris smiles, a knowing glimmer in his eyes. “I appreciate it, Master Keith.”

Keith groans, shoving him lightly as they make their way toward the door. “Cut it with the Master already.”

Regris only laughs, and follows him out.

 

.

.

.

 

The pumpkin spice latte will have to wait for another day. 

Halfway to the coffee shop, Antok calls, informing Keith that he’s been summoned to the East Coven.

Anything with one of the Covens can only mean bad news.

“Which faction lost control of their _rat?_ ” Keith hears as he enters the room, Antok and Regris flanking him. Most the of the other factions are already there, seated on the benches that effloresce from the center stage like a rose. They spiral up toward the vaulted ceilings, soldered in obsidian marble, fractured with gold. The colossal chamber devours all light, save for the bursts of blue fire suspended throughout, catching the gleam of gem stones ingrained inside the walls.

It used to be a gathering space for the Witches, set up in the underground of New York a near millennia before the construction of the subway systems. All lines are directed away from its location, accessible only by a handful of entryways and tunnels scattered throughout the city. Somehow, though, by magic only the Witches knew and have now left behind, it shifts position every so often, morphing the connecting networks around it. Today, judging by the dim noise of a chaotic hockey match happening above, they’re beneath an ice-skating rink in Central Park.

“Please, need I remind you who lost control of half their faction and instigated the Black Plague?” It’s Jyn of the Yavin faction who responds, her verdant eyes regarding Callan of Scarif with absolute abhorrence. Callan instantly shuts up at that, ceasing his attempted persecution of another faction. Jyn smirks. “Mmm, thought so.”

Keith sits away from them, unwilling to be dragged into another faction spat. Vampires are a proud and petty lot, and though they all work together to maintain peace within their society, each faction holds a grudge against another in some shape or form. Jyn, for example, hasn’t forgiven Callan for over two centuries after he accidentally killed her werewolf lover, an incident Keith never bothered to learn the details of.

“You best be thankful it was Bodhi’s quick thinking that got us out of this mess.”

“That may be, but being a paramedic is beneath his position. Where’s his pride as a vampire to be mingling so often with humans?” 

“Bodhi will do whatever he damn well pleases you murderous snake! You’re in no position to speak so lowly of him!”

Keith rolls his eyes, already growing annoyed of the bickering.

_Master Marmora._

At that, he sits up, recognizing the silvery rhythm of clicks and chirps forming his title. Gazing below, he sees her a few benches down, gliding toward his row as smooth as the waters she originates from. 

He answers with a series of clicks of his own, drawn from the back of his throat. _Narti, how are you?_

_I’m well, Master Marmora. And you?_

_Could be better if I wasn’t here._

Narti smiles behind her veil, lilac lips pulling across serrated teeth. Around them, eyes and ears track their every exchange, drawn to Narti’s rare existence. _A mer-hybrid_ , they whisper, vicious and inquisitive. For many, it’s the first time they’ve ever seen one. Vampires and mermaids scarcely encounter each other after all; creatures who exist in the deepest, darkest parts of the oceans have no interest for land-dwellers other than to eat. A vampire procreating with one of them is virtually unheard of.

 _Master Daibazaal will be here shortly,_ Narti says, a calm, echoing trill. She removes the veil shrouding her face, revealing gossamer blue skin and a dark, silken sash bound tightly across her eyes, protecting them. Despite the dim lighting of the room, Narti’s eyes have never recovered from her first exposure to the sun. The injury remains agonizing to this day, and Keith has always admired her for her tenacity in hiding her pain. Had he not taken the time to learn her way of speech, he would have never known the strain she endures just by existing.

There are some damages even vampire blood can’t fix.

“Cousin, it’s been too long.”

Narti steps back, bowing respectfully as her Master sweeps forward, Acxa guarding him close behind. 

“Lotor,” Keith greets, rising from his seat. It’s only been a year, but Lotor has always had a flair for the dramatics. “I see exile once again has treated you well.”

For all his Fae genes and vampire blood, Lotor is a sight for sore eyes even among their kind. The icy blue of his irises immediately set him apart from the crowd, a feature that opposes a vampire’s conventional dark pigmentation. His face is also longer and more elfin than most vampires, sharp cheekbones framed by a mane of white hair characteristic of his late mother’s ancestry. He’s taller than Keith by well over a head despite being only two decades older — a fact that Keith was far too envious of when they were young — and is built lean and sinewy, strength seemingly undeterred by wherever the Covenant decided to cast him off.

“Is it really an exile if they keep calling me back for these dreadful Coven meetings?” Lotor drawls, holding his arms out. Keith rolls his eyes and steps into the embrace, patting his cousin’s back affably. He would never admit it, but having Lotor back always sets Keith more at ease. Aside from being blood kin, they share the same birthright and the same dislike for all Covenant matters and vampire politics. It’s reassuring, to say the least, to have a family member around to confide in.

“I’m sure you’ve already charmed your way into their good favor by now. They’re only keeping you in exile for appearance’s sake.”

“Hm, I suppose I should be so pleased that they think I’m no longer worthy of a proper exile.”

They sit down together as the gates close, melding into the walls in ripples. The meeting’s about to start, the chatter all around dissipating into a muted hum.

“Where did they leave you to die this time?” Keith whispers, eyes focused on the last remaining entryway left open for the Covenant members.

“Oh, the Swiss Alps were actually quite lovely,” Lotor says, voice glazed with pleasantry. “Did you know the north face of the Eiger is nicknamed the _Mordwand_ , or Murder Wall? I know they intended to starve me out there but the supply of freshly dead mountain climbers was rather abundant.”

Keith resists the urge to frown in distaste, keeping his face neutral. Though he and Lotor have been friends since young, they never quite saw eye to eye in regards to humans. Lotor’s well aware of his discomfort, and senses it now as well. He laughs lightly. “Kind-hearted as ever, cousin. Do not worry, I paid my respects each time and made sure their bodies were retrievable by their loved ones.”

Before Keith could respond, Councilor Blaytz enters the chamber, followed by Trigel, Gyrgan, Îmwe, Ramonda, and Ulaz, pushed in on his wheelchair by Thace. Behind them, two unknown figures — vampire hunters by the looks of their attire — carry in a cage concealed with black graphene, the structure shaking forebodingly.

They set it on the center floor, the Covenant positioning themselves around the cage.

“Ah, good to see all of you made it! Sorry we called you in so early,” Blaytz says good-naturedly, by far the most spirited of the Covenant members. Keith has heard a lot about him from Ulaz, who regards him fondly like one would with a bulldog.

“Do any of you watch the morning news?” Blaytz continues, traipsing through the room regarding every faction member as if he were on a casual stroll around the park. “It’s boring as all hell so I wouldn’t recommend it, though there was something interesting on there today.”

“Please cut the theatrics, Councilor Blaytz,” Ramonda says, staring at the ceiling with a somewhat afflicted expression. She’s never been one for pointless small talk, and she and Blaytz have been known to clash on multiple fronts. Îmwe, the only Elder left on the Covenant, places a hand on her arm placatingly. 

“My apologies, Councilor Ramonda,” Blaytz says, though he doesn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “I’ll summarize.”

With that, he signals for the two vampire hunters standing next to the cage to begin dismantling the outside layer of the structure. The graphene blacking out the interior separates, sinking to the floor like sand, particles collecting into a single sphere that one of the Hunters picks up and tucks away.

When everyone’s able to see inside, it’s nothing any of them expect.

“This is Lubos. Or was, Lubos,” Blaytz says, smile shadowed in the glow of blue firelight.

In front of him, long, ragged claws lash out at the electrical fence wired around the cage, bursts of white hot current sparking off violently. The creature — a vampire, supposedly — screeches in agony as the current burns through them, tossing themselves into the fence over and over again as if disoriented by the pain. Their eyes are completely bloodshot, the whites of their sclera drenched in red, the same color of their veins that now fissure across their ash gray skin. They branch out in fractals, a labyrinth that all leads back to the puncture wound centered directly above the creature’s heart. As if a stake had been driven clean through.

“He’s been identified as a member of the Olkari faction,” Blaytz continues, circling the cage like he’s observing an exotic specimen at the local zoo. “He’s also been found guilty for the publicized attack of a human civilian last night, as well as the death of another earlier this morning. The details of which were, thankfully, concealed and fabricated by the Balmerans before the authorities were alerted.”

Everyone in the chamber remains stone silent in spite of the new information, too thunderstruck by the image before them. Ulaz pushes forward, his commanding voice jostling Keith out of his stupor.

“We are fortunate to be in the partnership of these two Hunters, Miss Nyma and her brother, Mister Rollo, who caught Lubos shortly after the incident.”

“We tracked him to the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen,” the Hunter named Nyma explains, eyeing the creature inside the cage with displeasure. She appears to be fully human, although it’s certain that vampire blood runs through her in some manner. “He was… inebriated, so to speak. Judging by the condition of the victim it seems he consumed more than his fair share.” 

Vampires who gluttonize prey are punished by their own biology, their livers unable to metabolize the excess blood all at once. Though the worst effects would be similar to alcohol intoxication — blackouts, vomiting, mental confusion — none of those symptoms seem to correlate with what’s taken over Lubos.

“Can you tell us what brought on his current condition?” one of the faction members on the bench asks, followed by another who shouts hysterically, “Was he staked?!”

“It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before,” Rollo answers calmly, leaning against the corner of the cage and tapping the frame, inciting the creature to throw itself into the electrical fence once more. Keith doesn’t like the cruelty of his smirk. “And yes, that would be a stake wound over his heart, which should’ve killed him, obviously. But we didn’t put it there if that’s what you’re wondering, as much as we would’ve liked to.”

Narti flinches, and Keith sends a sequence of soft clicks to soothe her.

“How curious,” Lotor murmurs beside him, leaning forward to get a closer look. “Is he dead or alive then?”

“Does it matter?” Keith says, grimacing at the vampire — no, _monster_ —trapped in the cage.

The other vampires seated around the room begin hissing at the male Hunter for his brazen comment, tensions rising. While Hunters and vampires have come to a truce over the centuries, the deal is tenuous at best. As long as the vampires stay within their bounds and don’t senselessly kill humans for food or pleasure, and as long as the hunters don’t seek vampires out for unjust persecution, they work together to maintain the peace when deviations occur. That, of course, doesn’t necessarily mean they have to like each other.

“Trigel and her faction are looking into it,” Ulaz speaks to bring order back to the room. “For now, I implore you keep an eye on your members for the next few weeks. There is danger unlike anything we’ve ever encountered setting afoot, not since Zarkon’s time at least.”

Keith feels Lotor stiffen at the sound of his father’s name, and a tinge of sympathy flows through him, followed by the wave of hatred that’s constantly there, constantly boiling beneath the surface.

Zarkon murdered his own sister after all, murdered Keith’s mother. By doing so, he sealed Keith’s father’s fate, took Shiro’s arm, and tried to kill him and Lotor as well, his own son. Keith would bring Zarkon back to life a hundred times if it meant he could deliver even half the torment and suffering he caused to Keith and his family.

As if sensing Keith’s turmoil, Ulaz catches his gaze and holds it.

“Everyone, dismissed.”

 

.

.

.

 

Going back to school feels like going to another dimension.

It’s snowing today, white puffs falling gently from pearly gray clouds, shrouding the reach of the sun. Keith takes off his helmet but doesn’t get off his bike, watching as all the students make their way through the parking lot — greeting their friends, playing with the snow, running inside to escape the cold. The chatter and commotion muffle Keith’s own thoughts, and he takes the moment to breathe and revel in the temporary blankness of his mind.

Everything here is so far removed from the world he comes from.

“Keith! My man, what’s up?”

A large hand claps over his shoulder, and Keith turns to see Hunk, grinning warmly at him.

“Hey, Hunk. How was your break?” Keith cuts the ignition, sliding off his bike just in time for Hunk to smother him in one of his bone-crushing hugs. 

“Oh man, break was fantastic!” Hunk swings Keith around for a bit before dropping him back down to earth. “You, Lance and Pidge all should’ve been there. My grandparents really outdid themselves like the pot roast this year was out of this _world_ —”

“Huuuuuuuuuunnnkk!”

A blur of blue and brown pummels into the bigger boy, knocking him sideways a couple of steps. No damage seems to be done though, aside from the extra weight of Lance now clinging to Hunk’s back like a koala bear.

“Oof, Lance, did you stock up on turkey stuffing or something over break?” Hunk jokes, to which Lance wiggles off of him with a pout, punching Hunk’s shoulder lightly.

“I’ll have you know that I definitely gave birth to a ginormous food baby during Thanksgiving, but I’ve worked off all that baby fat since and I’m ready for the runway.”

Lance strikes an exaggerated pose, to which Hunk wolf-whistles and plays along, saying, “Nice, what gig did you land this time, supermodel Lance?”

“Victoria Secret’s Fashion Show, I’m wearing the Fantasy bra set.”

“No one wants to see you in lingerie, Lance,” Pidge quips, popping into their circle, just as Keith has the blaring thought: _No, wait, I want to see him in lingerie—_

“Hello to you, too, little Grinch.” Lance ruffles their beanie affectionately and gives them a quick squeeze around the middle, Pidge grumbling expletives at him. They’re covered from head to toe in puffy, green winter gear; only the tip of their nose and eyes peek out from underneath their scarf and beanie hat.

“I think I’d look fabulous in lingerie.”

“I’m sure you would, but again, I never want to see it, thanks.”

“Guys, the bell rang, we should get to class.”

At that, Lance finally locks eyes with Keith, blue eyes twinkling. There’s snowflakes dusting his hair and clinging to his long lashes, cheeks rosy pink around a crooked smile. Keith wonders if he’ll ever stop thinking Lance is beautiful every time he sees him, or if Lance will give him a hug, too, because Keith really wants him to.

Instead, Lance winks at him, voicing a quick, “Race ya!” Before sprinting off with a head start. It takes two whole seconds for Keith to register what just happened, and another ten seconds for him to realize, wheezing in front of their lockers, that he forgot to use his super speed to win.

But again, with Lance laughing breathlessly beside him, Keith wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

.

.

.

 

“You always do that,” Lance brings up later that day, while they’re working on chemistry homework together in the lab room before Lance’s dance rehearsal and Keith’s soccer practice.

“Do what?” Keith asks, startling slightly. He was supposed to be working on the stoichiometry problems they were assigned today, but truth be told he had already finished the entire set five minutes in, and was simply redoing the problems over and over again to draw out his time with Lance. He was failing at that too, apparently, because he kept sneaking glances at Lance, whose face was scrunched up cutely in concentration.

Lance’s face is ducked away now, refusing to look up from his notebook. “Stare at me,” he mumbles in answer, and Keith feels his ears flare hot. Guess he wasn’t being as subtle as he thought he was.

“I don’t— I’m not staring all the time.”

Lance shoots him a look, but it’s not reproachful. More like… shy.

“You do, you were definitely doing it today at least.” He pushes his notebook aside, directing his full attention at Keith, which only makes Keith feel even more nervous. “What’s up? Do I have something on my head? My face?”

He leans closer, and the first answer that pops up into Keith’s mind is, _your face is perfect,_ but obviously he can’t say that to Lance.

“Oh my god, am I growing a _mustache_?”

“What? No!”

Truth be told, there was something in particular that’s been bothering him since this morning, but to tell Lance would be…

“Come on, Mullet, I can’t read your mind.”

Lance frowns at him, doe-eyed and watery, and Keith’s weak. He’s weak okay?!

“You… didn’t give me a hug.”

Hunk had gotten a hug. Pidge had gotten a hug, too. Why had Lance skipped him?

Lance drops his adorably underhanded puppy eyes, looking surprised. Interestingly, his skin briefly flushes a pretty red, before he shakes his head and hops off his chair, walking around the table to stand in front of Keith. He pauses for a moment, then throws his arms wide open, jaw clenched and brows creased. 

“Come at me bro,” he says, as if he’s headed to a brawl and not a hug. _No, not like that,_ Keith wants to sigh, but he’ll take what he can get. 

He steps forward into the V of Lance’s arms and circles his own around his waist, pulling him in. His chin hooks onto Lance’s shoulder as Lance’s arms settle around his neck, stiff like the rest of his body. Keith can feel the rhythm of his heart thumping rapidly, blood loud and intoxicating beneath his skin. He smells of fresh laundry, overlaying vanilla and cinnamon and a scent all his own. Something darker beneath; something irresistible. 

_Forbidden._

Keith fights the urge to bury his nose into the dip of his neck and inhale.

“See, this ain’t so bad,” Lance says, as if he’s trying to reassure Keith and not himself. Keith tugs him closer minutely, wishing he’d relax into the hug already, but not wanting to force Lance into anything he doesn’t want either.

“I never thought it would be bad,” Keith murmurs, hoping Lance would understand.Thankfully, it seems Lance does, because he loosens, molding into Keith’s hold.

“You’re very warm, Mullet,” he says faintly, almost to himself. His arms tighten around Keith, and Keith shifts ever so slightly so that his nose brushes against the column of his neck, breathing in quietly. His blood is so close Keith could almost taste it.

They stay like that for a while, until Keith decides to let go first for the sake of his own sanity, fingers brushing against Lance’s sides in the process.

Lance makes a noise like a meep.

“Um,” he says, eyes wide with what looks like panic. Keith squints. 

“Are you…”

“ _No._ ”

“Are you ticklish?”

Keith reaches out again, but this time Lance swerves away, body curving in a C-shape. Keith grins wickedly.

“You are.”

“I’m not!”

Keith manages to grab a hold of his sides and Lance lets out a shriek.

“N-No, please! Ah!” A peal of laughter ripples out of him as Keith begins wiggling his fingers mercilessly, trapping Lance against one of the tables so that he can’t run away. Lance paws at his arms, laughing hysterically, teardrops springing from his eyes. “S-s-stop, I cry uncle!”

Keith tickles him some more for good measure before ceasing his attack, hands coming to rest around Lance’s waist.

Against him, Lance is flushed and breathless, small, fragmented laughter spilling from his throat, head unconsciously bumping into Keith’s shoulder. When he looks back up, the afternoon light filtering through the windows refracts in his eyes, a halo of gold surrounding ocean blue. Keith’s heart fumbles at the sight, feeling somewhat wonderstruck. He slowly realizes that his hands are still holding onto Lance’s waist, that his thigh is between Lance’s legs, and that he’s basically leaning over the other boy, clothes and skin all pressed together.

Lance is still gripping onto his arms, too, like he hasn’t realized just how close they are.

 _You could ask this human boy of yours out on a date,_ Regris’ voice echoes in the back of Keith’s head. But Regris doesn't know what Keith did one year ago, when he first met Lance. Why he couldn't. Can't. Even if he desperately wants to. 

It wouldn’t be safe. It wouldn’t be fair to Lance.

A cough sounds behind them and they leap apart.

“O-oh, hey, Hunk,” Lance greets, the first one to recover. “Are you ready to go?”

Hunk’s standing at the doorway, eyes cast skyward as if trying to give the two of them privacy, yet needing to grab Lance’s attention anyway. He shifts his eyes back down at the sound of Lance’s voice, regarding them both with an amused, knowing look.

“Yeah, ready. But Lance, sorry. I can get you to rehearsal, but I realized I can’t pick you up after it.”

Lance frowns, moving to pack up his book bag. Keith decides to busy himself too, because he needs to rebound from whatever just transpired. “Why, what happened?”

“My aunt and uncle are leaving today and my mom has to drive them to the airport using my car. Sorry, it’s my bad cause I promised I could pick you up and completely forgot.”

Hunk seems gutted at not being able to uphold his promise, but Lance waves his hand consolingly, letting his friend know it’s not a big deal.

“It’s fine, I’m sure I can figure something out.” 

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks, walking up to him with his shouldered book bag. Lance smiles and shakes his head in the same comforting manner, no doubt sensing Keith’s concern, too.

“Nothing, it’s just that my mom’s worried about the recent assaults on the news and she wants someone to drive me back home from rehearsal, just to be safe.”

“I can pick you up tonight,” Keith says instantly, and Lance startles, as if he wasn’t expecting Keith to offer. “I can come get you after practice.”

“Are you sure, what if you live in the opposite direction of where I do?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll pick you up.”

Lance chews his lip, cheeks tinting pink again. Keith holds his breath.

“K, my rehearsal ends at seven thirty. I’ll text you the address.”

Keith nods, a flutter of excitement going through him. He can see Lance after school. He can pick him up. “I’ll be there.” 

Lance smiles, eyes crinkling silver. “Thanks Mullet, I’ll see you later.” He waves and sets out the door with Hunk, leaving Keith to stare at their retreating backs until they disappear. 

 _I can have this,_ he tells himself, even as part of him rebukes him for even taking such a risk. That he’s already pushing the line. That he will only cause the both of them hurt in the end. 

He can have this, _just this, please._ Have Lance as a rival, have Lance as a friend. No more than that.

 _No more, promise._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was okay!! Sorry if it was lacking >< I'm trying my best to get the plot going, cause for some reason instead of just letting Keith drink Lance's blood and calling it a day, I decided to attempt an actual, long and painful storyline, rip. I hope you guys don't mind and are willing to stick around! 
> 
> And yes, if you caught them, the Rogue One references were intentional, lolol. 
> 
> Until next time!!


	5. welcome to chili's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter!! Y'all are my main motivation for getting these chapters done ♡

It’s freezing outside.

Lance’s fingers shake as he pulls out his phone, scrolling through his list of recent messages and hopping up and down in place to warm up. He’s shivering so bad he’s afraid he’ll drop his phone as he types, sending his sixth reassuring text to his mom, telling her not to worry and that he’s getting picked up.

Mama’s been extra protective lately because of all the bad news going on: the bizarre attack Lance heard about on TV and the two murder cases that followed shortly after. According to the police, one was a lover’s dispute that went horribly wrong, and the other was a late-night mugging in the subway. The cases weren’t connected, obviously, but all three happened in relatively well-off neighborhoods within a few miles radius of the auditorium Lance has been rehearsing in. So, naturally, Mama’s maternal instincts kicked into overdrive.

It was a shame when Hunk had said he could no longer give him a ride, especially since they live on the same block of townhouses. Lance would’ve asked Allura for the favor instead, except she’s knee deep in finals at the moment, not to mention the fact that she lives on the other side of town. Lance didn’t want to bother her unless it was absolutely necessary, and luckily in this case, it wasn’t.

Someone unexpected had come to his aid.

Lance exits out of the chat and checks his other notification.

**[Kit-Kat Keith]: text me when you’re out and I’ll be there in a minute**

Lance raises a brow as he blows hot air into his free hand, hops tapering off into little bounces on the balls of his feet. Was Keith waiting around in the area? Creeping inside the convenience store again?

He taps a quick **hey im outside** before pocketing his phone, furiously rubbing the palms of his hands together to try to generate some friction. His fingers and extremities get cold enough on the regular, and the sub-zero temperatures of New York certainly aren’t helping. Teresa used to joke with him that he was actually born from a pod of cold-blooded fish; that they had found him washed ashore on the beaches of Varadero and decided to adopt him. With how much he loves the water and how easily cold he gets, maybe she was onto something.

A rumble sounds from around the corner, drawing Lance’s attention. He tracks the noise to see a sleek, red motorcycle pulling up, its polished chrome plating glinting in the semi-dark. Crimson light pulses from the rim of its jet-black wheels, exposing the silver shine of its exhaust and chains. Lance may not be as into cars and mechanics as much as Hunk is, but boy does he have an eye for luxury. And _holy fucking shit_ — it’s a motherfucking Ducati.

When Keith pulls off his helmet, Lance almost swoons off his feet.

If a mullet wasn’t bad enough already, a mullet tied back into a ponytail is even _worse_. Keith’s done just that, leaving his bangs to frame his face in such an effortlessly attractive manner that Lance wants to run his fingers through his hair and mess it all up. It doesn’t help his sanity either that Keith’s dressed in a tight fitting motorcycle jacket and ripped black jeans, exposing his knees and gripping the thickness of his thighs. _He has to be cold_ , Lance thinks while he fights to keep the oxygen circulating inside his brain. No one can look this hot in freeze-your-balls-off weather. It’s simply not fair.

“Hey, hope you didn’t wait long,” Keith says, setting his helmet down on the dashboard and swinging off his bike in one fluid, practiced motion. Lance scrambles for something to say even as his heart somersaults into his throat.

“This— This isn’t your usual bike.” He swallows and forces his heart back down into his chest. The one Keith drives to school is much rattier and scuffed up, though he looks devastating on the daily riding that one, too. 

“I dropped it off at a shop for repairs after practice,” Keith answers, grabbing a second helmet hanging off the handlebar. “This is my main bike, Red.”

He walks over to where Lance is stuck gaping at him like a beached fish, pushing the helmet into his chest. With his combat boots on, Keith topples Lance’s slight height advantage, and Lance feels his brain malfunction as he looks directly into Keith’s eyes, crinkled in something resembling satisfaction and pride. “Ready to go?”

Lance blinks. In his state of shock at Keith owning a twenty-thousand dollar sports motorcycle, he had completely forgotten the fact that Keith’s driving him home on said motorcycle, which means that—

“Ummm… How are we riding this?”

Keith quirks a brow. “I drive and you sit behind me?”

“Right, but I mean, like…” Lance tries to fib an excuse that won’t have Keith suspecting the real problem at hand, which is Lance holding onto Keith, pressing all up against him on the tiny seat that looks like it can barely fit two people. “Will that be safe?”

“Are you scared?” Keith’s lips upturn into a smirk, but he sounds genuinely concerned. Lance furiously flaps his hands in denial.

“No! I’m not.” He’s actually stoked, always up for a thrill ride. “I just—” _Don’t want you to think I’m feeling you up? Pretty sure I’ll faint from the proximity to how hot you are? Can’t believe this is my life right now?_

“I’ll keep you safe.” 

Lance’s breath stutters out in his throat.

It’s such a simple statement, but the way Keith says it — with so much earnestness and confidence — has warmth seeping into Lance’s chest. Safety’s not even the point, but Lance feels his uncertainties thaw out embarrassingly quickly. For all his rough edges and gruff mannerisms, Keith can be charmingly sweet when it counts.

“Okay, I’m trusting you with my life here, Mullet,” he quips, easing his fluttering heart. He takes the helmet from Keith’s hands, a dark blue matte with ridges in the back like cat ears, and fits it over his head. The material smells new, crisp air trickling in through the vents. Keith grasps it by both sides to help him straighten it. Even from behind the tinted visor, Lance can see Keith smiling just a bit, which is odd to him. What’s he so pleased about, honestly?

Keith puts his own black helmet on before remounting his bike, scooting up to make room behind. It takes two tries for Lance to throw his legs over the machine himself, which is stupid and kind of embarrassing because he _knows_ his legs are longer than Keith’s. _Stop being so nervous,_ he berates himself as grips onto Keith’s jacket, nervously.

“Hold on to me tighter,” Keith says, voice gone strangely quiet. Strained, almost. Lance nods, not trusting his own voice right now, and leans fully into Keith’s back, arms wrapping around his waist. The material of his jacket is durable yet thin, and Lance can feel the definition of his abs beneath it. A shiver chases down his spine at Keith’s radiating warmth, and he resists the urge to press even closer, suppressing a sigh of content.

How was Keith so warm?

“Ready?” Keith asks, hands tightening around the handlebars, revving up the engine. The bike vibrates beneath them.

“Ready.” Lance hopes the helmet muffles the tremor in his voice. He clamps his thighs tight around the bike and forces his eyes wide open as it peals onto the road.

The rush is unlike anything else.

He can hardly see past Keith’s head, but he can feel it. Feel everything. The chill of the pine-smoked air through the cords of his sweatpants, the wind flapping the edges of his heavy winter coat. He understands why motorcyclists all wear leather; his skin is freezing before they even round onto the main boulevard.

The city is vibrant with shuttering building lights and commuters all trying to make it back home. Lance shouts directions, which Keith somehow hears over the engine and the constant rush of wind. The streetlights wheel past, a white, fluorescent blur overhead as Keith gains speed. When they cross over the bridge, Lance tilts his head up toward the sky, breathing in the scent of ocean and winter, letting out a whoop as the adrenaline courses through him. He hears Keith’s answering laugh, and he holds on even tighter.

All too soon, the ride is over, Keith pulling into Lance’s quiet street. He staggers slightly getting off the bike, and Keith grasps his arm to help steady him. He pulls off the helmet and shakes out his hair before pressing it back into Keith’s outstretched hand, wincing slightly as the edge digs into his fingers. In his excitement during the ride, he didn’t notice how cold his bare hands had become. They’re numb and raw red from the icy chill, fingertips frostbitten stumps.

He pockets them before Keith can notice.

“That was awesome, you gotta teach me sometime!” He’s bouncing up and down again, both from the cold and from the leftover adrenaline. It’s too bad Mama won’t ever let him invest in a bike himself, being the superstitious woman that she is. Apparently she once had a dream that Lance would die in a vehicle accident, and it already took all his underhanded bartering methods to even convince her to let him get a license.

So far so good though, right?

Keith’s smiling at him, brows softened with amusement. “Sure thing, if you can handle it.” 

“Hey, of course I can handle it! I’ll have you know that Princess Peach and I have a record-breaking time on Rainbow Road. Driving a motorcycle will be a piece of cake.”

Keith snorts at that, face breaking around quiet puffs of laughter. It’s a soft, open expression, and Lance feels his heart throb sharply at the sight.

“Anyhooow, thanks for the ride.” He ducks his head and scrapes the toe of his shoe against the pavement, hoping the darkness obscures the flush of his skin. “Would you, uh— like to come in? My mom says she made hot chocolate and it’s like, the Colombian kind so there’s cheese at the bottom which probably sounds pretty weird but trust me it’s really good and you should try it.” Oh my god he’s rambling. “O-only if you want to, I mean… No pressure.”

Lance watches as Keith’s expression flickers with an emotion he doesn’t recognize, smoothing over too soon for Lance to decipher. He looks apologetic as he shakes his head. “Thanks, but I gotta get back today.”

“R-right, yeah.” Lance stamps out the spike of disappointment, dropping his eyes back down onto the sidewalk.

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow. Do you need another ride then?”

_Oh._

Keith’s offering to pick him up again. A rush of happiness floods in with the thought, even faster than the disappointment only a mere second ago. Jeez, what is _up_ with his feelings today?

“That’d be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.” Where does Keith live, anyway? Will he have to drive far to get back home tonight?

Keith smiles, and the warmth has Lance’s fingers curling inside his pockets. He looks almost surreal in the inky dark, drenched in the glow of moonlight. Something out of this world. Something supernatural.

“It’s no trouble at all.” 

 

.

.

.

 

Lance is… Stressed, to put it lightly.

It’s been a whirlwind of a week, what with finals looming near and group projects due all at the same time. Finals week also means two weeks from show time, which means rehearsals almost every night, which means Lance getting the bare minimum of sleep between practice and studying and consuming too much coffee than public health recommendations approve of. He doesn’t even like coffee and studying — he’s not a weirdo like Pidge — but he’s still got that vendetta against Billy Hargrove to uphold and a rivalry with Keith to beat.

_No, stop thinking about Keith._

It doesn’t help that an abnormal amount of murders and accidents keep happening around the city either. Every morning there’s a new report, varying from a freak accident at a construction site to a healthy district mayor suffering from an abrupt heart attack. There’s no pattern or relation connecting any of the incidents, but social media platforms are buzzing with all sorts of rumors and conspiracy theories, most of which are ridiculous. The funniest one Lance has heard thus far is the one involving vampires: that there’s a group of them orchestrating every attack and covering up their tracks. Lance may have an overactive imagination, but even he wouldn’t suggest something that crazy.

Regardless, the daily grisly news has gotten so bad that Papa’s taken up stress baking again. The whole house smells like pastelitos and red-velvet cheesecake 24/7, which is heaven for the twins and Mama, but torture for Lance’s waistline.

He brings batches of them to share at school alongside Hunk’s baked treats. Surprisingly, the pastelitos always disappear first, because it turns out Keith has an unexpected appetite for them. His eyes light up like a puppy’s every time he notices Lance carrying them inside his bag.

_Damnit you’re doing it again._

That’s another point of stress. Keith. For some reason, Lance can’t stop thinking about him every waking hour now. Like, he’ll be brushing his teeth in the morning and he’ll suddenly remind himself of how cute Keith looked one day stuffing his dad’s guava pastries into his mouth. Or he’ll be studying late at night and recall the afternoon he had to teach the dumbass what a dab is because he’s such an uncultured swine.

It’s seriously super annoying. Really. He made an ugly mess on his desk the other night when he was painting his nails blue for a study break, having abruptly remembered that Keith had bought a pair of gloves for him to wear. Apparently he had noticed Lance hiding his hands from him the first night he drove him home.

“Your hands were cold last time, right?” Keith had said, more of a statement than a question. He then proceeded to gently tug the soft, leather gloves onto Lance’s fingers, maneuvering them as if they were something fragile. Lance had prayed to whatever almighty God out there that Keith couldn’t feel his heartbeat practically leaping out of his skin.

Lance groans, burying his face into his notebook.

He had it so bad.

“You have what bad?”

Lance nearly teeters off his chair whipping his head back up, meeting Keith’s bemused gaze. He’d been so deep in thought he pretty much forgot he was currently studying with the source of half his dilemmas. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Lance wracks his brain for a credible excuse. He seems to be doing that a lot lately, too. “These galvanic cell equations are just harder than I expected and I really need to learn them down pat if I’m gonna beat you on the final. Obviously.”

Keith rolls his eyes, rotating his pen between his fingers in sync. Lance notices that he’s already completed all the practice problems, his page a mess of nearly illegible but correct scribbles. He hates to admit it, but Keith definitely has the upper hand when it comes to anything involving math.

“You don’t have practice tonight, right?” Keith asks, cutting through Lance’s glowering thoughts. “Want to come to my house to study?”

This time, Lance does fall out of his chair.

“Uh, run that by me again, buddy?” he says from the floor, wincing and clutching his ass. He crawls back up with as much dignified grace as possible while Keith stifles a laugh.

“I can help you with the equations if you help me memorize anatomy. Can’t have my ‘rival’ falling behind now.”

“Psssh, eat my dust Kogane,” Lance scoffs, while internally he feels like a hamster centrifuging off a hamster wheel. Keith just invited him over to his house, _what the quiznak!!_ “But yeah, that’d be cool. Cool cool cool.” _Oh my god shut up._

Keith starts packing up his books and Lance hurries to do the same, trailing after Keith as they exit the lab room. As they walk across the parking lot, he pulls out the pair of gloves Keith bought for him, making a mental note to knit something in return once winter break starts.

He helps Keith shove his backpack into the attached trunk box while Keith starts the engine, keeping his own bag on him as he slides onto the backseat. It’s as easy as habit now. The Ducati hasn’t made a reappearance, but the motions are all the same. Keith’s named the one he drives to school Black apparently, because he’s not the most creative when it comes to name-giving. It’s a vintage model that used to belong to his older brother, a detail Lance learned during the week on one of their rides back home. The two of them had built it together when Keith was fifteen.

They roar out of the parking lot, Lance long noticing that Keith has a penchant for speeding. He recognizes the route they take, one that leads into the the heart of the busy Manhattan district, not far from Lance’s usual rehearsal place and where he’ll be performing on Christmas. They cross over the bridge and into downtown, coasting along the edge of Central Park until they eventually stop beneath one of the tallest residential buildings in the city, Altea Avenue Plaza.

Lance’s jaw slams all the way down to the concrete.

“You live here?!” he asks, unable to hide his disbelief as they pull into the porte-cochère, stopping at the front of the entrance. Immediately, a valet walks over to assist them, Keith tossing him a spare key before helping Lance off the bike.

Altea Avenue is known for being among the most expensive streets in all of New York, if not the entire Western hemisphere. Lance has heard a lot about the enterprise behind the name from Allura, who works as a part-time intern for one of its branching law firms. According to her, Altea owns nearly every biotech and aerospace manufacturing company there is in the world, not to mention holding shares with global pharmaceutical corporations such as Paladin Inc. A single flat in the Plaza building could easily cost a hundred million.

Lance follows numbly behind Keith as they enter the main lobby, taking in the marble floors, gold accents, and diamond chandeliers. They take the elevator to the 78th floor, Lance feeling his eardrums pop with the change in altitude. When he steps onto the private landing and takes his shoes off in the foyer, he pinches himself just to double check he isn’t dreaming.

If Lance was surprised by Keith’s Ducati, he’s practically dumbfounded by the state of his penthouse.

Solid oak flooring heats beneath his feet as he enters the palatial living room, well-appointed with modern furniture items and gilded art pieces. Crystalline lights hang from the lofty ceiling, glittering in the wake of the sinking sun saturating everything in gold. They’re floating above the Manhattan skyline, the view boundless and breathtaking through the spotless bay windows spanning the entire wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Lance even spots a spiraling staircase, leading up to a second floor.

“Are you secretly related to Bruce Wayne or something?” Is the only thought that comes to mind after he takes it all in. He’s still starstruck and not sure when he’ll recover.

“I’m related to my brother,” Keith responds smartly, tossing his jacket onto a segmented sofa arranged at the center. “He’s one of the CEOs of Paladin Inc, the big pharma company.”

Well that explains a lot.

Keith leads him into a library, tucked away from the flare of sunset. It’s cozy compared to the rest of the house, dark shades pulled over the large window, furnishings brown-accented and warm. When Lance seats himself on the couch by the table, he nearly moans at how plush and comfortable it is.

“Never mind, I don’t want to study anymore, let me nap.” He curls his legs up and tries to bury himself into the cushions, efforts thwarted when Keith digs a sharp elbow into his spine. “Hey!”

“How are you going to beat me if you’re just going to sleep?” Keith drops down onto the couch with him, arm coming to rest over the ledge, draping behind Lance.

He’s awfully close. Lance refuses to read into the position as he knocks his head back against Keith’s bicep and groans.

“Fiiiiine, let’s do chemistry first before it sucks the life out of me.”

They scatter their textbooks and notes over the surface of the table, and for the next two hours cram a solid amount of studying in. It’s a quarter to seven by the time Lance checks the clock and sends a text to his mom, the lights in the house automatically turning on. His stomach grumbles mutinously.

“Hey, do you mind if I grab something to eat?”

Keith nods with a rub of his eyes, Lance sneaking a small smile at the sight. Even the unstoppable Mullet gets tired it seems. “You can check what’s in the kitchen.”

The kitchen’s on the other side of the flat, a gorgeous, minimalist layout with white lacquer cabinets and stainless steel appliances. Like the rest of the house, it looks straight out of an Ikea catalogue, every surface polished and gleaming like it’s never been used.

After refilling his water bottle at the sink, Lance opens up the massive, hidden fridge only to see that it’s basically empty, save for a few soup cans. He’s not sure why those are in the fridge and not the pantry, but he’s even more concerned at the fact that Keith doesn’t seem to have even a lick of food in his house.

“Uuuhh, Keith, does anyone cook in your family?”

Keith leans against the island counter behind him, arms crossed and brow raised. “No?”

“What about your parents? Don’t they cook dinner?” Lance shuts the fridge door to trap the cool air inside, turning around to face Keith. Keith’s looked away though, face shadowed by the fall of his hair.

“My parents are out of the picture.”

Lance feels all the breath escape him, like someone’s punched open the airlock. “Keith, I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay. They’ve been gone since I was ten.” Keith offers a half smile, but Lance’s throat still constricts at the statement. “Car accident.”

That would explain the spotless yet empty house, devoid of family pictures and any notion of one living here. Lance has always grown up in a bustling household; from Havana to New York City, he’s never known a moment of true peace and quiet. There were always relatives visiting and neighborhood festivities to attend, and even when an ocean separated them, the twins came into Lance’s life, becoming his responsibility and yet another source of joy.

For the first time, past all the glitz and glamour, Lance realizes that Keith lives in his penthouse all alone. That he may have lived alone for a good portion of his life.

Lance can’t fathom the loneliness of it.

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Lance, it’s okay, you don’t have—”

“I want to.”

He walks over and wraps his arms around Keith, sinking against the other boy’s shaking chest. Keith hesitates for only a moment before his arms are settling around Lance’s waist, pulling him even closer until their bellies brush. He tucks his face into Lance’s neck, the cadence of his shallow breaths fanning over his throat.

It’s the second time they’ve hugged, but Lance’s heart still fumbles against his ribcage like it’s the first.

“Man, all this wealth and yet we’re gonna starve to death. It’s such a waste of a good fridge, too,” he jokes, trying to ease the atmosphere. Luckily, Keith releases a small huff of laughter, and Lance feels his stomach swoop as Keith’s nose brushes against his neck. When Keith pulls back, his dark eyes are warm and bright. No longer sad.

“What do you suggest we do?”

He hasn’t let go of Lance, holding onto his waist while he leans into the counter behind him. Lance keeps his arms resting on top of Keith’s broad shoulders, too, fingers absentmindedly playing with the strands of hair at the nape of his neck. It’s a subconscious movement, one that Lance doesn’t even realize he’s doing until Keith hums and tilts his cheek, grazing the inside of his wrist.

Lance shivers at the touch, heat flushing through him as he pushes away and makes an executive decision. 

“Where’s the nearest grocery store?”

 

— - - -

 

Half an hour later, they’re back in the apartment, bags of groceries scattered around the island counter. Lance arranges the items in order like his Mama taught him, getting out the cutlery while asking Keith if he has an apron on hand.

Keith brings one out from the pantry closet, floral and hideous and with a large, black soot mark burned into the center.

“My brother tried cooking. Once,” Keith offers as an explanation. He hands the abused apron to Lance. “I’m no good at it either.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Lance says, tying the apron around him and patting it down with a flourish. “Let the master teach you the ropes, young cricket.”

Keith scrunches his nose in confusion. “I’m not a cricket. And I’m older than—”

“It’s an expression, Keith.” 

After washing the vegetables in the sink, Lance distributes half the chopping duty to Keith. They’re making chili, a simple enough recipe that would last Keith for a couple of days. The only tedious part is the prepping; otherwise, all they need to do is toss all the ingredients into a big pot and keep an eye on it.

Lance gets busy cutting up his half of the vegetables. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Keith staring down at an onion like it holds the mysteries of the universe.

Then, suddenly, he slams the blade down, and half the onion goes ricocheting off the chopping board, skittering across the marble floor.

“Jesus, Keith! It’s a vegetable, not your mortal enemy!”

Keith chases down the onion half before coming back, muttering, “This thing looks like a rock so I thought I had to cut it down hard.”

His expression is so genuinely innocent that Lance can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him. “Okay, samurai. How about I cut the veg and you just watch and learn?”

He gathers the rest of the vegetables back to his side of the counter, making quick work of the bell peppers and jalapeños. The butchered onion takes a while longer, partly because Keith mauled it, and partly because of the onion fumes. Keith observes curiously, seemingly unaffected. How is he immune when Lance is practically crying, what the heck?

He’s standing really close, too, body radiating heat behind Lance. It makes Lance a little nervous, and in a split-second of inattentiveness, his grip slips on the knife, blade slicing into his finger.

“Shit— _Ow_ ,” Lance hisses, watching the blood pool from the fresh cut. It’s shallow, but he can’t believe he got distracted like that; he hasn’t accidentally cut himself since he was eight, when he just began learning how to cook.

“Keith, do you have a first aid kit?”

When he looks back up, Keith’s nowhere to be found.

“Keith?” 

He hears the slam of a door somewhere within the flat, followed by Keith’s voice, sounding strained and out of breath. “There should be one in the closet next to the foyer!”

Lance raises a brow in bafflement at his behavior, but he quickly rinses the cut and heads out of the kitchen, shuffling through the foyer closet for a few seconds before finding the hefty first-aid kit. It’s jam-packed with bandages and disinfectant, luckily.

It only takes him a minute to patch himself up neatly, the blood already dry and clogging beneath the bandage. He goes back into the kitchen to clean the knife, too, reassembling the vegetables and spices, before waiting for Keith to reappear. 

After several minutes, Keith walks back in, movement unsteady and skin clammy underneath the light.

“Hey, you okay?” Lance asks, rushing over. His hands flutter around Keith, not sure where it hurts or what’s wrong, exactly. Keith waves his own hand to gesture that he’s fine, and Lance relaxes just a tad.

“Do you get squeamish around blood?”

Keith nods, wincing. “Yeah, sorry I ran out on you like that.”

“Hey, it’s fine. My younger brother’s like that, too.” Lance smiles reassuringly, hoping to lift the grimace etched into Keith’s face. “And I can wrap myself up just fine, see? All good.”

Keith’s lips quirk up a tad at that, and Lance releases a small sigh of relief.

The rest of cooking goes on without a hitch, the two of them snacking on clementines and Beanitos while waiting for the chili to simmer. They talk about nothing in particular and watch a few Vine compilations on Lance’s laptop in between, shoulders knocking into each other as they lean over the screen.

Whatever was wrong earlier seems to have smoothed over, the color returning to Keith’s face. He seems to enjoy dry and slapstick humor the best, his body shaking with quiet laughter whenever there’s a particular video he likes. The sound is rich and warm, and Lance wishes he could hear more of it.

When Keith’s messy, dark hair tickles against Lance’s cheek, only then does he become hyper-aware of how close they’re standing. Keith’s body is warm and solid next to his side, the length of their upper arms completely pressed together. He doesn’t move away though, so Lance decides not to either. It feels… Nice, after all. Being so close.

Lance finds himself watching the Vines less and less and Keith’s unguarded expressions more and more. The moment feels oddly intimate, but again, he doesn’t let his mind dwell on it.

When the chili’s finally ready, Lance serves two heaping bowls of it and packs the rest for Keith to eat over the weekend, secretly praying that Keith will actually like what he’s made. He’s always loved feeding people — it’s up there with knitting socks for them — and for some reason the weight of Keith’s approval feels extra important. He watches like a hawk as Keith takes his first mouthful, anxious for the reaction.

“Is it good?”

After a few, slow chews and a swallow, Keith’s eyes light up in wonder. He moves in for another bite, this time more eager. “Yeah, it’s… really good.”

“Ha, I knew it!” Lance preens at the praise, mentally patting himself on the back for the success. His shoulders relax; he hadn’t even realized how nervous he’d been. “The recipe never fails. I’ll teach you properly next time.”

He almost slaps himself for how presumptuous he sounds saying “next time” so readily, but at Keith’s smile and agreeing nod, his worry eases.

 _There’ll be a next time_ , he thinks excitedly, and tucks into his dinner. 

 

— - - -

 

Keith drives him home.

It’s nearing 11pm by the time they reach Lance’s house, and Lance feels slightly upset realizing he kept Keith so long. Time had slipped away from him, talking to Keith and eating dinner with him. Studying together and goofing off. Finding out that Keith’s even better than him at Rainbow Road, which didn’t make him as mad as he thought it would.

It felt so nice and natural Lance could’ve easily spent the rest of the night doing just that. Having fun with Keith. Making him smile and listening to his laugh. 

“Thanks again, for today,” he says, feeling strangely shy and nervous once again. His mind wanders to how next week is finals, and the week after that winter break, meaning he might not see Keith for a while. The thought festers uncomfortably in his stomach, until an idea trickles through.

“Hey, would you like to attend my dance studio’s Nutcracker performance this Christmas? I can get you a free ticket and, you know— you’d see me, the star, performing.” He trails off, half joking and half anxious. 

Keith tilts his visor up, blinking in surprise. “Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks for the invite.”

“Cool.” Lance nods, something like adrenaline washing over him, tingling and numb. “Cool cool cool.”

Then, in a split-second decision, he leans down and kisses the top of Keith’s helmet, right where his forehead would’ve been.

When he pulls back, he catches a glimpse of Keith’s shocked face, before he turns tail and bolts up the steps, shouting a shrill, “See you on Monday, bye!”

He slams the door shut behind him and rushes upstairs, bulldozing into his own room and slamming that door behind him, too. It takes a few seconds to slow his breathing and another few seconds to fully process what he just did. When it finally sinks in, it hits like a ton of bricks.

“What! _What!!_ ” Lance throws himself onto his bed and flails around, not knowing what to do with himself. “Why did you do that?! How could you kiss him like that what the heck _oh my god_ what—!”

“Lance, shut the fuck up!”

“Liam, language!” He hears Mama shout.

“Shut the _fish_ up!”

Lance stuffs his face into his pillow and groans.

How was he supposed to face Keith now? 

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith's inability to cut vegetables is a running gag I made up. Great at fighting with knives. A disaster when it comes to cooking with them, lol... Hope you had fun reading!! Come talk to me on twitter or tumblr @ephemelody if you'd like ^^ See you next time!!


	6. red rum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually watched the entirety of the Swan Lake ballet while writing this, even though the ballet in this chapter is about... the Nutcracker. 
> 
> Thank you to Dani @lyssy for beta'ing!

It’s fucking hot inside. 

Keith tugs off his tie, unraveling the cloth from his neck while loosening the top few buttons of his dress shirt. He ignores the disapproving look Regris casts him, knowing his retainer is sweating through his three-piece suit as well but is too straight-laced to admit it. Keith, unlike him, could care less about keeping up appearances.

Besides, he’s been on his best behavior long enough for one night. The annual gathering of vampires is an event that stretches well into the witching hours, and the party’s been in full swing since early evening. Vampires are pack creatures, mostly concentrating in large cities where everyone else resides, but there are some who have traveled far this year and who Keith doesn’t recognize.

He’s already finished making the rounds like Shiro had suggested, solidifying old alliances and shaping new ones. It took years under his older brother’s patient guidance for Keith to learn how to manipulate the social conventions, and although he’s now fully capable of doing so on his own, he still lacks Shiro’s natural charisma and easy-going smile.

Luckily, most factions vied for their attention and not the other way around. If it weren’t for their family’s status, Keith’s instinctive blunt demeanor would’ve gotten them shunned from society within seconds.

He watches disinterestedly as vampires mill back and forth across the banquet hall, the atmosphere tenser than years past thanks to the recent macabre events. Three more from various factions had gone rogue after Lubos, killing at least two humans each before they were finally captured and executed. It’s been a nightmare for the Balmerans to clean up, and Trigel’s team seem to have made no real progress in figuring out the cause of the aberrations. Every incident thus far has occurred somewhere inside the state of New York, so whatever — or whoever — is causing the vampires to turn must be in the area at least.

The main topic tonight has been nothing but gossip and pointless speculation. Keith’s close to ripping his ears out, heightened hearing be damned.

“Where’s my stupid brother?” he groans, tilting his head back and leaning against the bar, wishing vampire biology didn’t make it impossible for him to get blackout drunk so that he could end his misery.

“That’s my line.” Speak of the devil. Keith lifts his head back up to see Shiro walking over, the crowd parting for him in waves, a sea of hungry whispers and greedy eyes trailing after. Great, more gossip material. “Now you know how I felt whenever you ran off on one of your teenage rebellion stunts.”

“Don’t think I’ll ever become an old, boring geezer like you to feel that,” Keith digs. Shiro ignores the jibe.

“Almost didn’t recognize you there. What happened to your hair?”

“I was threatened.”

He scowls as Regris muffles a snort with his hand, because obviously from his perspective his wife could do no wrong, even though Keith knows she has the wrath of the Devil and then some. Despite being heavily pregnant, Alana had practically bound him to a chair and tore his hair out wrestling it down, slicking it back from his forehead with copious slaps of hair gel.

 _You’re so much like your mother,_ she had said, fond expression contradicting her rough manhandling. _Her hair would always fly away even on a still day, like she carried her own personal storm wherever she went._

“It’s a good look. I should thank Alana. She had her work cut out for her.” Keith aims a jab at Shiro’s ribs as they hug, Shiro narrowly dodging out of the way with a breezy laugh. “How is she, Regris?”

“Fiery as ever, if not even more,” Regris says, smiling. He’s got that moony look on his face again, the one that Keith used to make fun of and gag at constantly. “She’s due next month.”

“The two of you will be amazing parents,” Shiro says sincerely, and Keith silently agrees. After all, Regris and Alana were his primary caretakers after Mom and Dad died. He knows firsthand, better than anyone, the boundless warmth and compassion they possess — qualities he definitely took advantage of when he was younger and still fractured from grief.

_If they handled me growing up, they can handle any kid._

Keith downs the rest of his blood masquerading as a glass of Cabernet and sets it down on the tray of a passing server. “All right, now that you’re here, let’s go Regris.” The clock on the east wall of the banquet hall reads 7:40, meaning they only have twenty minutes to get to the auditorium where the _Nutcracker_ is being performed. The thought instantly brings to mind a pair of bright blue eyes and plush lips tilted in a smile, leaning down to press against the crown of his helmet.

Keith keeps his face staunchly neutral and hopes no one notices.

“Eager to get away from me?” Shiro jokes, before literally lifting an entire plate of appetizers off another server. For a 250 year old vampire, he sure acts like a fledgling dhampir sometimes.

“I have somewhere to be, and you promised me you’d take over.”

“Right, Regris mentioned plans about seeing the ballet, since my own little brother didn’t bother to say a word.” Keith stiffens marginally, though he doesn’t detect any suspicion in Shiro’s voice. Only teasing. “Sounds like you’ve actually managed to make friends at your new school.”

Keith rolls his eyes and ducks out of reach from Shiro’s hand, aiming to ruffle Keith’s hair. “Whatever. Have fun charming the pants off everyone.” Keith was starting to feel glares zeroed in on his head, no doubt annoyed that he was keeping Shiro from socializing. Everyone wants to meet Takashi Shirogane after all, would-be heir of the Marmoran empire and the one who defeated Zarkon. Their champion.

“Little Master Marmora!”

_Shit._

Keith recognizes that shrill voice. His reaction time is a fraction of a second too slow as the person barrels into him and swings him around, slamming his nose into the sharp ridge of a collarbone before releasing him. Ezor shows no remorse as Keith rubs at his sore nose, hands still clasped comfortably behind his neck.

“Ooooh, look at your hair! You’re even more handsome now,” she coos, hyper blue eyes sparking white with mischief. Her hair’s dyed coral pink this time, styled in a glossy, high ponytail that sways almost down to her knees.

“Ezor, lay off the runt. His puny bones might break.” Zethrid lumbers forward, jaws clenched in a vicious smirk. Keith thinks she might’ve bought a suit one size too small, the way her muscles bulge against the seams. _Fucking jacked up werewolf genes._

“I remember my ‘puny bones’ choking your windpipe last time we brawled, Zethrid,” he throws back, mouth stretching into a smirk of his own when he catches the slash of irritation across Zethrid’s face. “Want to have a repeat of that?”

Zethrid growls, but before she can retaliate, Acxa is beside her, placing a placating hand on her curled forearm. “Zethrid, stop antagonizing the young Master,” she says sternly. Keith is surprised to see her out of her usual uniform and in a black slip dress instead, the backless cut of which dips low to the base of her spine, revealing the stumps between her shoulder blades where her wings were cut.

She’s always taken great care to hide them from prying eyes. Keith wonders what could have compelled her to be so bold this year.

“Acxa, you look beautiful,” Shiro greets. He’s caught on to the rarity of Acxa’s attire, too. The half-harpy dips her head in acknowledgment.

“Thank you, Mister Marmora. Master Daibazaal insisted on a change for the occasion.”

“You shouldn’t hide who you are, Acxa.”

Lotor melts forward from the crowd, dressed to the nines in a silk, burgundy suit, gleaming beneath the light of the chandeliers. All eyes shift to track his every movement, though not as kindly as they regarded Shiro.

 _The mad king’s son_ , they whisper, curiosity and fear oozing past their lips, _and his halfbreed escorts._ Keith wills himself to ignore their hostile remarks, accepting Lotor’s extending hug.

They’ve always been the outcasts in a sea of purebloods. Regardless of Lotor’s family past, halfborns have been looked upon as defects for centuries, being as there are so few of them. Vampires can be allies and even lovers to the other supernatural, but childbearing is unthinkable and often at the cost of the mother’s life. The child is then rejected from both sides of kin, killed instantly or left alone to wander until they die.

The situation has been better ever since Keith’s mother’s influence — factions like the Balmerans and Olkarions following her example, taking in hybrids from all over the world — but some degree of intolerance still remains, especially against those associated with the disgraced Daibazaal name.

Everyone knows of Zarkon’s cruelty toward his own son, that Lotor is as much a victim as anyone else, but blood runs thicker than water as the saying goes, and vampires are a naturally distrusting sort.

“Late again, Lotor,” Keith says, keeping his cousin’s attention away from the crowd. He knows the truth better than anyone on the night Zarkon went mad, and he’ll defend Lotor against those who try to mar him in his father’s legacy. Ezor, Zethrid, and Acxa flank him protectively as well, stances relaxed to the unobservant eye.

Lotor smiles easily. “Of course. What’s there to miss?” He motions the bartender for a drink and reclines onto one of the stools, posture loose yet elegant. “I assume no one’s made any headway on our current mystery.”

“None, but I think you would’ve enjoyed seeing Throk shanking Morvok with a steak knife.”

Lotor laughs openly at that, head thrown back. “What on earth for?”

“Morvok accused Throk of being the culprit.”

“Morvok implicated his own faction leader? I didn’t think Throk held so little control over his members.”

Turran Throk had been part of their training cohort when they were young, tradition setting faction dhampirs into combat simulations to see who was the strongest. It was easy for Keith to surpass all of them, his innate combat abilities and Kolivan’s strict tutelage giving him the upper hand. Lotor was a natural as well.

Throk on the other hand, with his rash temper and heavy-handedness, had always lost whenever they sparred and made his jealousy blatantly clear. Those traits seemed to have stuck with him over the years, and now showed in his careless leadership.

“Keith, we must go if you don’t wish to be late.” Regris gently touches his arm, motioning toward the clock. Another five minutes have passed, but Keith knows he could still make it to the performance hall in ten if he took his bike.

“I’ll see you around, Lotor,” he says, shrugging on his coat that Regris had fetched for him earlier.

Lotor raises his glass to him, “That you will, cousin,” before taking a sip, lips stretched along the rim of the glass. 

Keith and Regris make their way out, dodging social climbers left and right. It takes longer than expected, and at the door, Shiro catches up to them, grabbing onto Keith’s shoulder. _Okay,_ now _I’m gonna be late._

The look on Shiro’s face quiets his complaint, though.

“Be careful, Keith,” he says, the grip of his hand tight. Keith tilts a brow, bemused by Shiro’s sudden seriousness. It’s probably nothing, just Shiro being his overprotective self again, and Keith would ask, but…

_Lance is waiting for me._

He reaches up to give his brother’s hand a reassuring squeeze. They could talk later.

“You too.”

 

.

.

.

 

They make it to the performance just as the lights dim.

The usher directs them silently to their seats, located at the front of the third-floor mezzanine with a quarter off-center view of the stage. It’s one of the largest auditoriums in the city, but nearly all the seats are occupied. Keith shrugs off his coat and scarf before sinking down like a stone, finally able to relax now that’s he’s far away from the stuffy banquet hall.

The audience shudders to silence as the heavy curtains part, music swelling rich and vibrant from the pit below. Keith’s seen the _Nutcracker_ over fifty times by now — Tchaikovsky was a family friend before he was staked in 1893 — so he can’t say he’s paying much attention, unlike Regris who seems to be fully enraptured. Keith’s only here for one person, anyway.

He knows Lance won’t appear until the end of Act I, playing the part of the Prince trapped inside the nutcracker doll. They had talked about it on the phone yesterday, after the first night’s performance. Lance had called to make sure he was still coming, trying to pass it off nonchalantly, but Keith’s been getting better at parsing through his myriad of emotions. It sent a thrill through him knowing he made Lance just as nervous as Lance made him, even without the aid of the bond.

After almost two weeks, Keith still can’t stop replaying the night Lance had dropped a kiss on him and ran. Lance acted like nothing had happened the next time they saw each other, even though Keith didn’t sleep the whole weekend thinking about it. In his memories, everything about that day was saturated with light and color. How Lance had brightened his empty apartment just by sprawling over his couch. How Lance had seemed completely comfortable resting on his arm, going over notes and watching videos and talking about anything under the sun. 

How Lance had took the time and energy to make him dinner, even though truth be told, Keith couldn’t eat human food. Vampires never developed the tastebuds or digestive system for anything other than blood. And while some can pretend for a short period of time, eventually they have to throw it all back up.

Keith’s lucky enough that he can stomach most things. Although part of it had been an act, the chili Lance had made for him was surprisingly flavorful despite his deadened tastebuds. Eating it still made Keith vomit most of it out afterwards, but seeing the way Lance had smiled at him during dinner? Keith would eat an entire spread of Lance’s cooking in a heartbeat.

 _You almost ate him, too,_ his brain reminds him unhelpfully. Keith slumps further into his seat at the intruding thought, eyes glaring at the stage where the Christmas tree is rising toward the ceiling, creating the illusion that the young girl Clara was shrinking.

When Lance had sliced his finger open with the knife, Keith had nearly lost control. The first breath of freshly cut blood had hit him like a freight train, and Keith practically flew out of the kitchen, locking himself in the second floor bathroom on the other side of the penthouse. Lance’s scent shrouded him completely, heady and sweet and intoxicating, sinking into his skin. Keith had torn through the wine cellar trying to find another blood reserve while Lance patched himself up.

What had happened was one of Keith’s deepest fears, yet he couldn’t stand the thought of pushing Lance away either. It took another two bags of blood and a supplement to dampen his senses, a pill that no one voluntarily takes unless it’s a last resort. He felt nauseated and weak for the rest of the night, but leaning against Lance — simply being beside him and feeling his warmth — helped with the worst of it.

He knew it was wrong. That it was dangerous to keep Lance by his side. That it would only weaken him further as time went on. But…

Lance would also be safe with him, right? Especially now with all the strange events happening. He could protect Lance and keep him safe, so long as Lance never finds out what he truly is. So long as Keith never drinks his blood.

On stage, it’s the battle with the Mouse King. A large rat leads an army of smaller mice, probably children scurrying underneath the fleecy costumes. Keith’s attention is drawn back in with the appearance of the Nutcracker, now life-size, dressed in a deep red uniform with brass lapels gleaming beneath the stage lights. The choreography of the scene is meant to be humorous, movements absurd and exaggerated as the Mouse King and Nutcracker duke it out. Imagining Lance giving it his all with that ginormous, gaudy Nutcracker mask over his head has Keith laughing until his stomach cramps.

When the lights dim and the Mouse King is defeated, ‘dead’ body twitching as it disappears into the orchestra pit, Keith doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath, heightened vision scanning through the darkness for any sign of Lance. Gradually, the lights surge back on, and from the corner of the stage, a blue-eyed Prince dances forward, chestnut hair windswept and smile breathtaking.

Keith has always thought of Lance as pretty, but in this moment, he’s the spot-on image of a handsome and debonair Prince. He soars across the stage, toned legs propelling him through the air with years of hard-won grace and agility. Every pose he strikes looks effortless, the flow of his limbs as smooth as water, and when he meets Clara in the middle, every part of him melts into the embrace. The brilliance of his smile softens to one of tenderness; Keith feels his own heart tremble at the look, filled with such an infinite breadth of love and warmth.

 _All right, let’s not get jealous of a dance partner,_ Keith reminds himself as the couple waltzes through the wintry forest, dusted in shimmering snow. The scene is dreamlike, one song thawing into another, and Keith is wholly entranced as Lance and Clara’s duet comes to an end. A flurry of snowflakes pirouette onto the stage, sweeping them away in a pearly wash of silver and blue.

When Act I finishes, Keith is the first to give a standing ovation.

The intermission passes in a blur, and through the rest of Act II, Keith’s eyes never leave Lance’s figure. There’s a charm to his dance that’s absolutely captivating, rousing laughter and murmurs of awe from the audience whenever he’s front and center. It’s clear as day to anyone that dancing is something Lance is earnestly passionate about, and it shines in every movement, in every smile.

Then, as the violins begin the familiar refrain of the Sugar Plum Fairy, Keith feels his heart seize at the sight of the principal dancer.

“Is that…?” Regris shifts forward in his seat, having reached the same realization as well.

In this life, her hair is brown, piled elegantly high into a gilded tiara. Even with the change in hair color and the lack of markings, however, Keith would recognize that face anywhere. He flips open the pamphlet given to him by the ushers, scanning the pages for the names of the performers. There, underneath Lance’s picture, is _Allura Brooks_. She had kept her first name but changed her last.

“Shiro can’t know she’s here,” Keith says, loosening his grip on the page when Regris places a hand on his shaking arm. The music thrums to an end, and Allura dips into a brief bow as the auditorium explodes with applause. 

“Perhaps it’s best if she remains ignorant of our presence as well.”

Keith nods in agreement, an easy choice.

He wants nothing to do with the woman who abandoned his brother when he was on his deathbed.

 

.

.

.

 

When the performance is over, Keith and Regris stand in a secluded alcove of the reception hall, waiting for the crowd to clear.

Keith keeps a careful eye on Allura, watching her accept flowers from audience members and hug her fellow ballet dancers. There is another woman beside her, one of the snowflakes judging by the wreath of silver flowers laced into her hair. She looks familiar, though the makeup obscures her face. They’re holding each other close, talking quietly against each other’s lips, separating only when Lance flies into them, wrapping them both up in a hug.

The fact that Allura is close friends with Lance might be a problem. Lance seems to be in the dark as to who she really is, but Keith knows all too well. They were friends, once. Almost brother and sister. He’s never hated her — he can’t, not truly — but she wasn’t there for Shiro when he needed her the most, and a part of Keith can’t forgive her for that.

When Allura and her lover finally leave, disappearing into the thinning crowd, Keith releases the breath he was holding. Lance is mostly alone now, his family having seen his performance yesterday along with Hunk and Pidge. A mountain of flower bouquets is laden in his arms, and he fumbles around them as he types into his phone. Keith’s cell chimes a second later. He checks the notification with a smile.

**[LANCE!! >:3c]: hey are u here??**

Keith leans against the wall and observes him quietly for a little longer. A young girl approaches Lance, a single rose in her hand. Lance crouches down and sets his pile of flowers delicately on the floor, giving the girl his full, undivided attention. They exchange words, the girl giggling happily at whatever Lance is telling her. She plants an innocent kiss on Lance’s cheek before running back to her parents, who wave at Lance in thanks.

“Seems like you have a lot of fans.”

Lance jumps at the sound of his voice, eyes widening when he catches sight of him. “Keith!” He stands up with a flail of his arms, lips curving into a bright, elated smile. “You came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Keith pats himself mentally on the back for not stuttering, pulling out the bouquet of roses hiding underneath his coat. “You were amazing. Congrats.” 

Lance accepts the roses with a flush dark enough to match their color. “Thanks! I’ll, ah, add this to the pile,” he jokes, but he pulls the flowers closer to his chest, not letting go. A thrum of pleasure nestles in Keith’s stomach, and he’s not sure how much of it is his own or Lance’s.

An elbow digs into his bicep. Keith turns to see Regris peering at him expectantly, a suspicious smile on his face. Shit, right.

“Lance this is my, uh… Uncle.” Regris shoots him an offended look, something like: _do I look old enough to be your uncle?_ “Regris, this is Lance.”

“Pleased to finally meet your acquaintance, Lance,” Regris says smoothly, shaking his hand. “Your performance was beautiful.”

“Thank you! I’m glad you and your nephew could make it.”

“Of course, Keith has spoken a great deal about you.”

Lance blinks at him surprise, a curious thrill pulsing through him that hooks into Keith’s gut. “All good things, right?”

“Oh, the list is never-ending. Sometimes I can’t get him to stop.” Regris smirks at Keith from the corner of his eye. Keith can only gawk at him, having never felt a greater betrayal than this very moment. Regris is going to get stabbed in the ass at their next training session, mark his words.

“ _Uncle_ , aren’t you late for a meeting?” Keith says, pointedly. Lance frowns, confused by their glaring match.

“It’s past ten PM?”

“He works late.”

“Yes, it seems I do.” Regris gives him an exaggerated wink that’s a thousand percent on purpose, _Jesus fucking Christ—_ “Be safe, kids! Don’t stay out too late!”

With that, he walks off, waving his hand behind him as he rounds the corner and out the door. Keith feels like he’s just sprinted through five marathons, heart pummeling at the speed of a bullet train.

“So, ah, you talk about me, huh.”

There’s a hopeful, delighted edge to Lance’s voice, and Keith resists the urge to pinch his brows. “Lance.”

“All good things? Like what, can you give me an example?” Keith side-eyes him with a _look_ ,and Lance giggles into his roses, holding them up in front of him protectively. “Okay, okay. No worries, I know underneath that cold, broody exterior of yours you think the world of me.” He throws a horribly cheesy wink, and Keith can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. _I do._ “Oh, Hunk and Pidge are picking me up in a bit and we’re going to a diner on fifty-sixth street. You’re free, right?”

“Yeah, I can hang,” Keith tries to say casually, and he helps Lance pick up his bouquets, nerves quieting as they talk and nudge at each other playfully.

When Hunk and Pidge arrive, Lance piles into the back of their car with all his stuff, while Keith follows behind on his motorbike. The diner they pull into is a staple, late-night joint, serving classic burgers and french fries and “the best malt milkshakes on this side of the Milky Way galaxy, seriously,” Hunk swears. ‘80s music jingles from an antique jukebox near the door as they slide into a booth, Keith passing the excuse that he already stuffed himself at a late dinner party, which is, well, true.

He hasn’t seen Hunk and Pidge either since winter break started, but it’s easy to slip back into conversation with them. Somehow, in the past few months they’ve known each other, they’ve all become close. Keith’s not incapable of making friends with humans, despite his antisocial tendencies; he’s just never seen the point in doing so.

They would all pass by the end of the century after all, and Keith would be alone, forced to move on.

A fry hits the red leather seat behind him, narrowly missing his head. Keith shakes out of his thoughts to see Pidge and Lance passionately arguing over… something? He shoots Hunk a questioning stare, one that Hunk shrugs helplessly in answer before throwing himself into the fray, trying to assert damage control.

“You’re the furthest thing from cultured, Lance!” Pidge says, waving another threatening fry at him.

“Rude, Pidge! I like going to museums and appreciating fine art!”

“Fine art my ass you thought the Louvre was the thing you use to shower with, the loofah!”

“Um, guys, could you please—”

“That’s not the point!”

“No that’s exactly the point!” 

“The Louvre has a point,” Keith says, quietly.

All three of them stop yelling and shouting at each other immediately, turning to blink at him in unison. Keith gives a shrug, and Hunk is the first to burst into a snort of laughter, followed by Lance and Pidge.

“The Louvre has a point,” Pidge mutters, sitting back down and sipping their milkshake, lips stretched into a grudging smile. Hunk is now doubled over under the table, and Lance is wheezing into Keith’s side, soft strands of hair tickling the shell of his ear. When he finally stops laughing, he stays there, head pillowed against Keith’s shoulder, warmth seeping through the thin layer of his dress shirt.

A mellow quiet settles over them, punctuated by the occasional bout of lingering laughter. Keith drops his cheek on the crown of Lance’s head and breathes evenly, finding comfort in his sweet, familiar scent. He wants to take Lance’s hand and thread their fingers together, measure their weight and how they fit. He wants to lean down and kiss the arch of Lance’s brow bone, imagine the way he’d react, if he’d be as surprised as Keith was when he kissed his helmet and left.

Instead, he keeps his eyes focused on Pidge, who’s launched into another tangent, acting it out dramatically with Hunk. He laughs until his stomach is sore, argues and banters with all his might, and lets the contentment wash over him. Lets himself feel light and uninhibited.

It’s more than enough, getting to hang out with the people he’s come to call his friends.

After dinner, Hunk and Pidge head back to their car, but Lance loiters behind, standing next to Keith.

“Hey, umm. Would you like to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center with me? I haven’t gotten a chance to yet.”

Lance’s hands are shoved into his pockets, and he’s staunchly looking at a point past Keith’s shoulder while rocking back and forth on his heels. Keith tries not to smile but fails quite miserably.

“Sure.”

Lance beams at him, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout at Hunk in the distance.

“Hunk, can you help me get all my stuff back home? I’m gonna stay out a bit longer with Keith.”

A complicated series of facial expressions follow, like Lance is having a silent conversation with Hunk from across the parking lot. Eventually, Hunk grins and shouts an amused “no problem,” back, pushing an equally gleeful Pidge into the car.

“Let’s go,” Keith motions, keys already in hand. Lance clambers easily onto the back of his bike, tucking himself comfortably against him. The ride to Rockefeller Center is short and quiet. They park a couple blocks away, the area still busy with couples and families who have come to see the lights one last time, too.

The Christmas tree is as bright as a bonfire at the center of the square, iridescent lights scattering crescent-shaped haloes and dousing everything in gold. Silver-blue bulbs lace along the branches of the trees bordering the ice-skating arena, laughter chiming into the crisp night air as people glide and trip over the surface. 

Lance skips to the base of the tree excitedly, pulling Keith behind him. They stand at the corner of the railing, Lance gazing up in wonder. His nose and ears are bright red and he’s shaking like a leaf. Keith smiles with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, wondering if Lance will ever dress warm enough to not be knock-kneed and shivering. Lance looks at him in question when Keith gently pushes him around to face him.

He unravels his scarf and carefully loops it around Lance’s neck, fluffing it high to shelter Lance’s ears, tucking the ends into the front of his coat. Lance dips his nose into the swathe of red fabric, cheeks flushed pink as he looks at Keith from beneath his long lashes. He breathes in ever-so-softly and makes a pleased sound from the back of his throat.

“You smell good.”

Keith’s not sure how to respond to that, so he leans in instead, kissing Lance’s cheek against the scarf. When he pulls back, Lance is brighter than the ornaments on the Christmas tree, wide blue eyes catching the glow of the fairy lights.

“Payback,” Keith says, softly.

At that, Lance shoves his entire face into the scarf. Keith laughs at how adorable he is, hands smoothing down Lance’s sides to settle on his hips, pulling him closer to coax his blush-hot face out of his cocoon. Eventually, Lance looks back up, laughing shyly, too.

“I have something for you,” he says, reaching into his coat pockets. He pulls out a bundle wrapped in shimmery blue tissue paper, tied in a neat bow of twine. Keith accepts the bundle and carefully unwraps it.

Inside is a pair of knitted socks, a dusty blue color with two pink ears sewn onto the ankle hole, white, arrowhead eyes and a darker snout stitching the toes. They’re hippos, Keith’s favorite animal. Lance had cajoled that fact out of him on a random afternoon. A pair of matching gloves is beside them, the same dusty blue color and arrowhead eyes and nostrils sewn onto the back.

“You don’t have to wear them—” Lance starts, a ball of nervous energy, but Keith is already tearing off his leather gloves and slipping his hands into Lance’s knitted ones. He flexes his fingers to test out the fit, finding them snug and comfortable. Lance stares at him open-mouthed.

“They’re great,” Keith says earnestly. “Thank you.”

The nervous energy subsides, and Lance is once more beaming at him. “Merry chrimmus.”

“Merry crisis.”

“Amazing, he memes.”

Keith wants to kiss him again, without the scarf between them.

A part of him knows that Lance must feel the same way for him to some degree, though not as deeply as his own feelings. If the bond connected both ways, Lance would know in a heartbeat the intensity of Keith’s want and yearning; would know what he does to Keith, how his scent unravels him, how he makes Keith forget all about the turmoil and loneliness inside him.

He wishes he could stay like this with Lance for as long as he’s able. Until Lance must leave this world. Until Keith is forced to live without him.

“Come on, skate with me.” Lance tugs on his sleeve, the happiness of his emotions flooding through as their hands tangle together. Keith willingly drowns in it, letting Lance take him to the skating rink. Letting Lance take him anywhere.

Neither of them notice the figure watching them from the edge of the crowd, melting into the city night.

 

.

.

.

 

“Callan is dead.”

A ripple of shock runs through the Coven, whispers rising insidiously as shadows thrash in fear beneath the somber glow of the room. This is the first time a faction Master has fallen victim. If even their leaders fall to the unknown enemy, how will the rest of them fare? 

“We’re investigating his and Andor’s faction now, since they’ve had a on-going feud for the past few centuries.” Ulaz holds up a hand to command the Coven back to order. “He killed over half of his own faction members before his passing, as well as five humans whose deaths have been ruled together as an accident to the public.”

“Have you figured out what’s causing this to happen?”

“Do you know anything?”

“Who’s next?!”

“We have preserved Callan’s body and are currently running tests,” Councilor Trigel speaks, emerald eyes pinning down every voice of dissent. “The Olkarion faction promises that we will determine the source of these abnormalities and disclose what we find in time. We have not failed before and we will not fail now.”

“For the time being, we have agreed it’s best that each and every one of you travel in packs from now on,” Ulaz says, much to the balk of the vampires seated. The Marmoran Councilor raises his voice, the power emanating from him once again choking the air to silence. “Do not think you are immune. Callan was a skilled Master, and his faction has survived for nearly a millennia. Unfortunately, it is now no more.”

The truth falls heavy on all of them. Keith may not have cared for Callan and his people personally, but it’s true that they’ve been an integral part of their society for centuries, and held influence in several sectors of the human world. The loss of his faction will be hard to cover up and fill in.

The Covenant begins to disperse, signaling their dismissal. 

 _I did not like Callan, but he did not deserve the end he got,_ Narti trills quietly, holding onto Keith’s offered arm as they descend the steps.

“Few are fortunate to die a deserving death, Narti,” Lotor says, his smile like that of addressing a child. Narti bows her head, and Keith would’ve soothed her, cast Lotor an inquiring look, but a loud, scornful voice draws his attention away to the front of the arching exit.

“—Isn’t it obvious who’s behind this?” Throk jeers loudly, commanding the interest of those making their way out of the Coven. “Nothing has happened since Zarkon’s death, but look at what’s happening now, and how it coincides with his _son’s_ return.”

The implication is plain as day. Lotor steps forward leisurely, his stance relaxed and conversational to all who don’t know him.

“Throk. I’d say it’s good to see you but I’d hate to be the scheming snake you say I am.”

The smile Throk gives him is wolfish, sloe eyes clear with contempt and residual jealousy. He steps forward, nearly nose to nose with Lotor, no doubt feeling emboldened by the crowd surrounding them.

“You may have everyone around you fooled, but I know your nature. You will prove yourself to be no different than Zarkon.”

“I am _not_ my father,” Lotor spits, the neutrality of his mask fracturing. Keith observes the tremor of his hands, curling into fits, and in an instant he’s between them, shoving Lotor behind. 

“Apologize, Throk,” he says, not bothering to veil the threat in his voice. Keith has never given Throk the time of day, knowing the other faction leader possesses nothing but envy and bitterness at his core, no matter how hard he tries to disguise it. While Keith cares little about the influence and authority his family holds in the vampire world, Throk cares all too much.

“You will regret this, Little Marmora,” Throk says, jaw clenching savagely. “Your blood is as weak as your father’s as well. Lady Marmora should have known better, consorting with such _dirt_ —”

Gasps rebound across the room as Keith pins Throk to the wall, knife at his throat.

“You take that back,” he snarls, eyes flashing red from the force of his anger. “You take that back or I’ll cut it out of you.”

“Master Keith, stop.” 

Regris grips onto his shoulder, but his hand is lax. He’s furious, too, and would claim equal fault if Keith chose to shake out of his hold and cut the sniveling scum in front of him to pieces.

Keith digs the knife into Throk’s skin, enough to draw blood, but decides to release him. There’s no point in wasting time and energy on someone who would only apologize to save his own skin. Throk collapses to the ground before scrambling up, running out the door.

Keith sheathes his knife, and at the glare he directs to everyone else left in the room, they all scram.

 _Great, even_ more _gossip material now._

He slumps against the wall, sharing a smile with Regris.

“As much as I would’ve enjoyed seeing you tear that man apart, I’m proud of you for choosing not to, Keith.”

Keith rolls his eyes, just as Lotor walks over and leans against the wall with him. “Thank you, cousin,” he says, kicking the heel of his boot against Keith’s ankle, like how they used to as kids. Keith knocks his foot back, offering a tired smile, feeling suddenly drained.

It’s been a while, since anyone’s brought up Dad’s name. 

“Anytime.”

 

.

.

.

 

When Keith steps onto the landing of his apartment, he instantly knows something is wrong. Someone’s entered the house, their perfume thick and foreign to Keith’s nose. He unsheathes his knife from his boot and slips silently past the door, following the scent through the living room and into the kitchen.

What he’s not prepared for is finding Lance standing in the center of the room, holding a bag of blood in his hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith can't catch a break, huh. And they were practically dating too... :') Come talk to me on twitter or my writing tumblr @ephemelody if you'd like! Til next time ^^


	7. questions with (no) answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood going into S5 is shrill screaming. Thank you to my lovely friends (Bean, Dani, Rache, Lin) who helped me work through character reactions this chapter and slapped me with some puns (looking at you, Linda). Y'all the best.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who left a comment last chapter! I'm sorry I didn't get to all of you. I smiled every time I got one in my inbox, so please know that I love hearing from you guys always, even if I'm bad at responding TT ♥

Considering how much stress Lance has been under lately, Sunday yoga class with Allura comes as a blessing.

Or so he thought.

“Lance, stop fidgeting!” Allura hisses, smacking him lightly with her hand before going back to her plank position. Lance grumbles an emphatic “ _ow_ ” but stills his movements obediently, abdominal muscles tight as he redistributes his weight.

“Did it occur to you that maybe my core was dying and I had to adjust?”

Allura lifts into downward-facing dog with a derisive snort, following the rest of the class. “Bullshit, I’ve seen you hold a plank for a full five minutes. Your core’s stronger than even mine.”

“You should join Nyma and I next time we go to our pole dancing lesson then,” Lance quips, extending his right leg back, body stretching into one long, diagonal line. “Reap the benefits.”

“Oh, I’m reaping the benefits.”

There’s a lascivious lilt to Allura’s voice that has Lance laughing through his exhale, right knee pulling forward to the back of his right shoulder. On the successive inhale, he extends his right leg back once more, before lowering it down to his mat.

“Hey, this is a sanctuary of peace and tranquility, not your X-rated bedroom activities.”

“Then _be_ at peace and tranquility, Lance. And check your form in the mirror. You’re slightly off-kilter today aside from being fidgety.” 

Lance groans when he sees what she means, making a mental note to really ground himself in his body on the next sequence. It’s difficult though when his mind’s not in it at all, drifting constantly elsewhere like an aimless sail lost at sea. 

Listen, it’s all Keith’s fault, all right? 

Lance’s thoughts inevitably run into the other boy, his image backlit by the shimmer of Christmas lights and falling snow. It’s been well over a week since they last saw each other, but Lance feels like he’s seen him everywhere with how often he pops into Lance’s daydreams. Especially now that the winter performance season is over, he’s had way too much time on his hands to replay every moment of that night like a broken cassette. 

 _There you go again, thinking about the date_ , his brain sing-songs, and Lance is grateful that they’ve all sunk into child’s pose, otherwise everyone would’ve seen the cherry red blush coloring his face. _It wasn’t a date, stupid!_

Was it?

After the performance on Christmas, Lance had asked Keith to take him to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, partly because he wanted to and partly because he wanted to give Keith his present away from Hunk and Pidge’s prying eyes.

The night had gone so much better than he could’ve imagined: Keith had accepted his gift and immediately worn them, no matter how silly the hippo detailing seemed to clash with his whole mysterious, bad boy vibe. He even ice skated with Lance afterwards, chasing him around the rink and holding his hand tight when the two of them almost tripped over each other and crashed into the side. He hadn’t let go for the rest of the night, listening to Lance ramble on and on with rapt attention, as if he had no better place to be. As if they were just like the other couples on the ice.

 _Don’t forget the kiss_.

An embarrassing ‘meep’ leaps out of his throat at the intrusive reminder, but luckily it’s lost in the swell of music and the yoga instructor’s voice, signaling the end of class.

“Namaste,” everyone murmurs, a collective sigh perforating through the room.

“I should’ve nama-stayed in bed,” Lance mutters, though loud enough for him to be on the receiving end of one of Allura’s glares.

“You sure are in a mood today,” she muses, wiping down her yoga mat before rolling it up. Lance mirrors her actions, tugging on his sneakers and coat after he’s done. “Wanna talk to me about it over a milkshake?”

“Your treat?” Lance asks shamelessly. Allura rolls her eyes but smiles, humoring him. It’s been their tradition after every yoga or pilates class to grab a bite to eat together. Lance would pay one week and Allura the next, though they never fussed over it if they lost track.

Bundling up, they head out to the nearest Shake Shack, opting to walk despite the blistering wind. Lance’s muscles still thrum pleasantly from the exertion of a thorough work-out, and all his layers keep him toasty as he strolls after Allura down the boulevard. It’s easy to let his mind wander again as he trails behind, thinking back to the kiss Keith had pressed against his cheek over the scarf. 

In that sense, it hadn’t been a kiss, not really. Keith had said so himself that he was simply getting Lance back for the peck he dropped on Keith’s helmet.

But… no matter how hard Lance tried to shake it off casually afterwards, he just couldn’t get it out of his head. The warm pressure of Keith’s hands around his arms. The cold brush of his nose that had tingled across Lance’s skin like peppermint. If the scarf hadn’t been in the way, what would Keith’s lips had felt like? Soft? Chapped? For all his good looks, he did look like he could use some lip balm.

Lance buries his nose into the scarf as they wait for the signal at the crosswalk, breathing in the spiced, smoky scent he hadn’t wanted to wash out. Keith had let him keep it after that night, and while he’s been meaning to return it, he’s also loathed the thought of giving it back. He’s worn the red scarf almost every day for the remainder of break. At this point, he figured he may as well give it back when school starts up again tomorrow.

Besides, whenever they texted, Keith never mentioned it either. And when they talked, Lance never found the courage to ask him whether Christmas day had been a date or not.

It had to have been though, right? It had _felt_ like one. _I want it to be one_. Lance can at least admit to himself now that he has a definite crush on Keith, fashion-impaired hairstyle and poor eating habits regardless. He’s gruff and short-spoken and a little intense, but funny and smart and unexpectedly sweet, too. Kind of like a pineapple bun — crunchy on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside. Oh, and the hotness is a given, of course.

“Hey, Lu. If a guy kisses you on the cheek and goes ice skating with you and holds your hand and drives you back home does it count as a date?”

Lance shoves the rest of his burger into his mouth after the long-winded question, waiting somewhat anxiously for Allura’s answer. They’re sitting in a corner booth of the busy Shake Shack, loud with servers calling out orders and hyperactive toddlers. Lance knows Allura still heard him though, because the look he receives is the definition of: ‘are you fucking kidding me.’

“Lance, repeat that sentence to yourself.”

“If a guy—”

“No, not literally!” Allura flicks her ponytail behind her shoulder with a roll of her eyes, manicured nails carefully dunking a french-fry into their shared ketchup cup. “What’s your gut feeling? Be honest.”

“It’s… a date.”

Allura pops the fry into her mouth and shrugs. “Definitely sounded like one to me.”

“Oh.” Lance casts his eyes down and takes a long sip of his milkshake, letting that sink in. When he looks back up, Allura’s expression is sparkling.

“Is this about that boy you’ve been crushing on for the past two months?”

“I— I have not!” Lance splutters. Allura arches one intimidatingly perfect eyebrow. “Not _that_ long!” The twin brow goes up, too. “Luuuuuuu.”

“What? It’s adorable.” Lance ducks away from her french-fry fingers trying to pinch his nose. “It’s been a while since you’ve had such a serious crush on someone. You didn’t even flirt with any of the Snowflakes this year, which is how I know it’s that bad.”

Lance quiets, realizing she has a point. He hasn’t flirted with anyone in ages, not even the silly kind where everyone can tell he’s just joking around. What’s happening to him? He’s losing his mojo.

“If you guys are already going on cute dates, why not ask him out officially?”

“No way, nuh-uh.” Lance shakes his head, fingers tapping restlessly against his now empty milkshake cup. “We went on one _maybe_ date. I don’t even know if he’s interested in me that way!”

“Lance. He’s into you.” Allura says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’ve never even met him.”

“I don’t need to. I have wisdom.”

That tugs a laugh out of Lance, and they quickly clean up their table before exiting the restaurant, heading towards the mall across the street to check out the Sephora sales there.

“I don’t know,” Lance huffs, hiking the scarf high up his cheeks and shivering against the wind. “I mean, I only _just_ realized I have feelings for him. What if I mess it up?”

Allura snuggles into his side for shared warmth, arms looping around his. “How would you mess it up? He’s just another boy. He farts just like you, I promise.”

“Sometimes I forget how nasty of a mouth you have and then you remind me.”

He gets an affectionate poke on the cheek. “I learned from the best.”

They both sigh in relief when they enter the warmth of the mall, making a beeline for the Sephora store. Lance doesn’t actually need anything, but he’s a VIB member like Allura, so he may as well take advantage of the exclusive sale. Allura pats his arm before releasing him, gliding away to inspect a row of lip gloss.

“Give it some thought,” she says. “It’s not like you have to ask him out right away. Oooh, this color is cute!” Allura picks up a sample and swipes a swatch onto her hand, holding it up for Lance’s opinion. “Oh, another thing: when do you want to get started on your piece for the second round of auditions? That’s coming up soon, right?”

Lance hums approvingly and Allura moves on to the next color. “Right, I actually wanted to ask your opinion on…”

The rest of day is fun and relaxing, though his wallet certainly doesn’t appreciate it. He buys a new tub of moisturizer that he definitely doesn’t need, and adds it to the pile of bags he’s helping Allura carry while she visits the public restroom. As he’s waiting for her though, he gets accosted by an extremely aggressive salesperson, who drenches him in five different layers of tacky cologne and body spray before he manages to escape.

Later, he says bye to Allura after making plans to practice his second audition piece next weekend, then takes the train to the grocery store to run a few errands. He doesn’t even think about Keith until he sees the batch of yellow onions in the produce section. 

A fond smiles stretches across his face as he bags a couple, remembering Keith’s horrible (nonexistent) chopping skills. _I wonder if he’s eating properly._ He must’ve finished the chili by now, and no one came home for the holidays except his brother, who is allegedly even worse at cooking than Keith is.

An idea starts forming in Lance’s head as he exits the store, finally making the trudge back home.

He tries to talk himself out of it on the train, then as he’s greeting the twins at the door, then when he’s unloading all the groceries onto the kitchen table. It’s a bad idea. A potentially very awkward idea. But eventually, his concern for Keith and his desire to see him — even though school literally starts tomorrow — wins out.

With that, he leaves a few bags of produce out on the counter and runs up the stairs, nerves and excitement making his limbs clumsy and loud. He shoots a short text message to his mom letting her know what he’s up to before dunking his clothes and the scarf into the washer, feeling a twinge of sadness at parting with the item that’s given him so much warmth and comfort during winter break. After staring at it rinsing in the wash for a beat too long, he pats his cheeks to clear his head, hopping into the shower with the single purpose of scrubbing off as much of the awful cologne still stuck to his body as he can.

 

.

.

.

 

When he arrives at Altea Plaza, the doorman wrinkles his nose but lets him in, directing him to the elevators and pressing the button for him.

Lance wonders why the doorman had such a bizarre reaction to him. Did he still stink? He takes the elevator time to sniff at his arm and realizes it’s still slightly saturated with the layers of body spray beneath his usual shampoo.

Okay, so he smelled like John Cena had dropkicked him into a vat of AXE cologne marinating inside an Abercrombie & Fitch store. It’s fine! Maybe Keith won’t get all close to him now and make his stomach do Olympic-worthy gymnastics.

He steps onto the landing when the elevator opens, jostling the container of freshly cooked _ropa vieja_ and Keith’s scarf in his arms to ring the doorbell. He hadn’t told Keith he was coming, too anxious and half-hoping that he wouldn’t be home so that Lance could simply leave the dish of food at his door with a note. When his eyes catch on the door handle though, he notices that it’s slightly pushed ajar.

 _Huh._ Keith had never struck Lance as the forgetful type. Even with a doorman and a private landing, leaving the door unlocked couldn’t be safe. _Maybe he’s inside?_

Lance pushes the door open and slips in, calling out, “Keith?” He listens to the sound of his voice echoing through the vast penthouse. No one responds.

Despite how nice the place is, it’s definitely creepy when it’s all empty and dark. Lance flicks on a light, deciding that he’ll just drop the food in the kitchen and send Keith a text about what happened. Scold him about home security and what not, even though he kinda-sorta broke in himself.

He gently places the scarf on the living room couch before his feet carry him toward the kitchen space, its condition just as immaculate and unused as ever. Opening the ginormous fridge, he carefully places the Tupperware inside, a sticky note with heating instructions tacked onto its lid. He’s about to close the fridge and leave when his eye catches on something in the bottom left corner.

When he leans down to take a closer look, his heart stops cold.

It’s a PVC bag, half-filled with a viscous, dark red fluid. The labeling above it reads “O Rh Positive, No Known Diseases.” When Lance picks it up with shaking hands, he sees that the nozzle is partially broken, indents that resemble human teeth marks all around the opening.

 _Blood_ , he realizes, dripping and splattering onto the tile floor.

Instantly, Lance’s thoughts are a panicked mess, fight-or-flight response slamming in like a car crash. _Why does Keith have this what was he doing with it why does it look like someone’s been_ ** _drinking out of it?!_** He’s trembling from head to toe, the words on the labeling of the blood bag blurring in and out of focus as he tries to read, vision spotting, heart practically hammering out of his body. “Patient tested clean… Quality will last for ten days… Do not drink with alcohol… Do not leave it out…”

_Holy fucking shit!_

Wait.

Wait wait _wait_. Think _._ Try to rationalize it first. Maybe it’s some sort of prank? Maybe this is Keith’s way of getting him back for that one time he swapped his water out for vinegar and this is actually some fucked up looking watermelon smoothie?

It didn’t smell like fruit though; it smelled purely of blood, thick and iron sharp. Keith didn’t even know he was coming. Keith already got him back for the prank by making him drink the vinegar, too. Keith doesn’t even—

Keith doesn’t even have anything else inside his fridge.

He barely ever ate. He was always sniffing at Lance. Oh my god oh my god _oh my god_ —

“Lance?”

Lance jolts, nearly dropping the bag.

When he turns his head, Keith is standing at the entryway to the kitchen, dark eyes wide and face paling rapidly, so much so that Lance has the fleeting, insane thought that he might vanish on the spot. His grip is knuckle-white on the frame of the aperture, as if he had spotted Lance and then staggered backwards from the shock.

Crap. Shit. He’s caught red-handed ( _haha, get it,_ red _-handed— no, no Lance this is_ not _the time for your brilliant puns!_ )

“Heeeeyy, Keith. Buddy, pal, my man.” He tries to laugh casually but it comes out as a high-pitched whimper. “Could you, uh, explain this totally normal bag of human blood you have in your fridge before I really start freaking out?” 

Keith’s mouth drops open but nothing comes out. He looks utterly shell-shocked, staring at Lance as if he’s hoping he’s an apparition, emotions too transitory to catch. It’s enough to convince Lance that he has no good excuse to be found.

Lance feels his heart rate flare up again, and he slowly lowers the blood bag onto the counter, eyes darting to the entryway on the adjacent side of the kitchen.

“Ooookaaaayyy, I’m just gonna.” Lance inches toward the door. “Gonna go now!”

He makes a break for it.

Lance is sure he’s never sprinted so fast. He’s across the living room and almost to the front door when Keith materializes out of nowhere, blocking the exit. Lance skids to a stop with a scream.

“How the fuck?! What! What!! Did you just teleport?!”

“Lance, listen to me, please—” Keith reaches out to grab his arms but Lance flails out of the way, almost tipping over on his feet.

“Oh hell no, hell fucking _no I am not going to die today_ —”

“I would never hurt you!”

“ _Then why the fuck do you have human blood in your refrigerator?!_ ”

Lance feels like all the wind’s been knocked out of him, the cavernous penthouse filled with only the sound of his gasping breaths. He’s about to faint, he’s sure, but he fights to stay conscious — fights against the fear — and slow down his breathing. Keith doesn’t shift from his spot in front of the door, but he lowers his arms and steps back to give Lance space. The action only makes Lance feel marginally better, hands still balled into fists at his sides ready to throw them at Keith if necessary. 

A part of him thinks — _wishes_ — that this was all a bad dream. That he had never decided to come visit Keith to give back his scarf. That he had taken a shower and collapsed into bed. That he’s simply sleeping and can’t wake up.

The fear mirrored in Keith’s eyes, though.

That’s nothing but horribly real.

“I’m—” Keith starts, his voice splitting like a gunshot. In the half-light, in the growing darkness, Lance can barely make out the planes of his face. Can only tell from the twist of his brows and the cut of his mouth that he’s in pain.

Whether that pain is from the fear of being found out or something else, Lance can’t figure it out.

“I’m not a cannibal or murderer or whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“Then what are you?” Lance asks, tone bordering hysterical. He remembers the first time he met Keith. How he had truly thought Keith was a kidnapper or murderer, until Keith’s kindness and sincerity convinced him otherwise. Had it all been an act? Has Keith been lying to him this whole time?

Keith casts his eyes down, long bangs shrouding over. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he says lowly.

Lance scoffs, a spark of anger igniting inside his chest. All he was asking was for Keith to be truthful, to come clean so that they could talk it out and help Lance understand. He couldn’t even do that?

“So what, are you saying you’re some kind of supernatural, blood-sucking being? Like a vampire?”

Keith startles, dark eyes flickering up to pin Lance with a momentary glimpse of raw honesty. Lance’s heart constricts, an empty, disbelieving laugh kicked out of his ribs.

“Keith, stop joking around. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not.”

Keith says it so plainly, as if it really is the truth.

He offers nothing else.

Lance doesn’t know whether to yell at him or call the cops immediately, mind and feelings torn to shreds in all different directions: disbelief, anger, fear… heartbreak? There’s no way Keith can seriously expect him to believe that he’s a vampire. Those don’t exist. Those are just a myth. 

But… In the shaft of moonlight filtering in through the windows, Lance can see it. The ring of red surrounding Keith’s dark eyes, glowing faint yet undeniably.

_Vampire._

“I’m leaving.”

The words are barely out of Lance’s mouth before he’s pushing past Keith, a burst of courage propelling him through the door and to the elevator, jamming the button with his thumb repeatedly. The doors luckily slide open in an instant and Lance jumps inside.

“Lance! Lance, please.” Keith’s chased after him, but he doesn’t try to hold the doors apart. He doesn’t try to stop Lance. Only looks at him pleadingly, expression helpless and terrified. “If you just hear me out, please let me explain.”

And for a second, Lance pauses.

In the mellow light of landing hallway, it’s still Keith who’s standing in front of him. Earnest, funny, sweet and thoughtful Keith. The Keith who Lance has gotten to know and call a friend. The Keith who Lance has just started to like as _more_ than a friend.

Would that Keith lie to him? Is that Keith the real one? Is he still here even in the aftermath of Lance’s discovery, in the wake of everything that’s happened?

Lance wants, more than anything, to simply forget about it all and reset the day. But he can’t. He can’t stay. Everything is too much right now. Nothing is making sense.

All he can do is turn away, abandoning Keith as the elevator doors slide shut with finality.

 

.

.

.

 

Keith doesn’t show up to school the next day.

And the next.

And the next after that.

He doesn’t text or call either. Even when Hunk and Pidge ask him what’s wrong through the group chat, there’s no response. When the two of them look to Lance expectantly, the only thing he can manage is a weak shrug and a “maybe he’s sick.” Obviously, neither of them buy into his answer in the slightest.

“Both of you are acting weird,” Pidge says, squinting at him from behind their glasses, fingers pausing on their keyboard. It’s the third day Keith’s been absent, and honestly, Lance is impressed that they’ve managed to hold back interrogating him for this long. “Keith vanishing into thin air I can accept since I don’t know him that well, but you? Did something happen?”

“Nope, I’m fine. Peachy.” Lance wiggles the peach he’s holding and bites into it, other hand latched onto his phone, thumb scrolling down. He’s just about to switch tabs when suddenly, another hand much broader than his own plucks it out of his grasp. “Hey!”

Hunk presses his nose against the screen, brows raising as he scans the content. “Why are you reading creepypasta stories? You hate anything horror related.”

“Yeah, well, I decided that these are interesting and got hooked. See these Gucci eye-bags? I’m giving Pigeon a run for their money.” Lance makes grabby motions at his phone and Hunk hands it back, but he’s still frowning skeptically.

“Okay, bro. I’ll trust you on this. But seriously, if you wanna talk, just let us know.”

Hunk gives him an encouraging smile that Lance returns, easy and convincing despite how forced it feels. Luckily, he’s a conditioned actor, and manages to maintain the cheery facade until the end-of-lunch bell rings.

In Language Arts class, he goes back on his phone, hiding it under the jacket across his lap. He opens up the sites that he’s now since memorized, browsing between articles and links, reading as quickly and thoroughly as he can.

‘The Bloody Truth of Vampires,’ ‘Vampire folklore,’ ‘Do Vampires Exist Underground?’ The list goes on. Thank god he had the smarts to delete his browsing history before Hunk had gotten a hold of his phone. He’s been researching for the past couple days, scouring every corner of the internet and stumbling into the sketchiest sites for every piece of vampire info he can find. He even willingly went to the public library for the first time in years to search for books on the subject. And while he hasn’t been staying up late reading creepypasta stories, he’s definitely been forfeiting sleep to go over all the vampire material he’s curated.

By now, he’s pretty much come to terms with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Keith really is the ancient, supernatural, bloodsucking being he says he is.

It took a full night of insomnia, a bubble bath, and a Twilight movie binge to let the revelation sink in. Lance still isn’t sure if he’s fully accepted it; his arm is definitely bruised from all the pinching he’s done to himself. But honestly, between a vampire and a cannibal, Lance would actually much prefer the former. At least with a vampire, a part of him will always maintain a level of skepticism. In that sense, it’s a lot less scary and easier to deal with than a bona fide murderer.

When school ends for the day, he waves goodbye to Hunk and Pidge, who both have to stay behind to finish their robotics project for the state competition. Lance isn’t quite sure why he’s hiding what happened on Sunday from his two best friends, considering how they’ve always been more receptive to the strange and supernatural than Lance is. But would they really believe him if he told them that Keith’s a vampire? How would he even bring that up?

It’s the same dilemma he ran into when he briefly thought about calling the cops, because who would take him seriously? _Hey, I just found out my classmate, friend, and blossoming crush turned out to a bloodsucking monster, could you please look into it?_ No way. He’d get arrested instead for sounding like a crackpot.

Besides, it’s not like he actually wants to arrest Keith or get him into trouble or anything. He just wants to… understand? Learn more about him? His own thoughts and feelings are still so confusing that Lance doesn’t know what he wants at all; only that, without Keith around, there seems to be this gaping emptiness inside that Lance can’t fill.

Someone shoves against him, a bent over old granny who’s surprisingly nimble on her feet. Lance jolts back to reality and fails to get a good look of her, finding it odd that she didn’t utter an apology. His mind quickly drops the issue though when he registers with dismay that he had actually missed his train. He’d been so lost in thought that he didn’t realize that it had arrived and left.

It’s going to be another ten minutes before the next train comes. Lance walks over to an empty bench and slumps down, hugging his backpack to his chest, staring blankly ahead at the grime-slick walls. A cheery trumpet tune filters through from somewhere above the station, and a few benches down sits a couple pressed closely together, giggling brightly. For some reason, they make Lance feel bitter.

The thing is, he _misses_ Keith.

Despite spending every waking hour of the past three days finding out all that he can about vampires, he knows that constantly, in the back of his mind, he was always worrying about Keith. Which is stupid of irrational and pretty fucking _batty_ , because why the hell would Lance need to worry about a mythical being that allegedly has super powers and has been alive for centuries? Where’s his sense of self-preservation?!

But every time Lance thinks about him, it never centers around his professed, bloodsucking tendencies. Rather, Lance would remember the way Keith drove him home every night. How they competed over the dumbest things. The pair of gloves Keith gave him, his dimpled smile, their midnight conversations that never fail to make Lance laugh, their morning hugs that have only ever made Lance feel warm and safe inside.

He can’t help but wonder whether or not Keith is doing okay. If he’s sleeping well. If he even needs to sleep at all. Wonders, if Keith doesn’t eat normal food, then is he drinking enough blood? Why would Lance care about that? Doesn’t that mean someone has to die in order for Keith to stay alive? Shouldn’t he be worrying about humankind, _himself_ , instead?

Vampire revelation or not though, at the end of the day, Keith had felt like a genuine friend. A genuine person who Lance has come to care for. Those moments they shared together had to be real, because Lance had felt them so deeply and wholly, and he’s always been the type of guy to follow his gut feelings. They’ve never led him astray before.

It’s always been part of Lance’s code to trust his friends and give them the benefit of the doubt, too. He likes to the see the good in people after all. In that respect, he failed Keith by shutting him out before giving him a chance, and that’s something Lance has to fix himself. 

When his train finally arrives, he doesn’t hop on. Instead, he waits five more minutes for the next one, Line L, going in the opposite direction to Altea Plaza.

He has so many questions still, none of which are getting answered properly by Wiki searches and pretentious published texts. The fear has also subsided with time, leaving behind a longing ache to see the person he’s been missing, and a deep, burning curiosity.

_So why not ask the vampire directly?_

 

.

.

.

 

 

When Keith opens the door, Lance gives a cheery, little wave.

“Hey.” 

“H-Hey.” Keith looks like he’s seen a ghost. Or a vampire. _Heh, funny._

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice surprisingly steady. For some reason, all of his nerves seem to have disappeared, replaced by a glassy calm at the sight of Keith’s face. Keith shuffles quickly to the side, nodding.

A few minutes later, they’re staring each other down in the kitchen where it all happened, standing on opposite sides of the island counter. Keith’s still staring at him like he’s some sort of mirage or apparition, which is comforting in a strange way when, between the two of them, Keith’s the one who’s more likely to be a figment of the imagination.

“So…” Lance starts, tapping his glass of water agitatedly. The nerves are back again, since he hadn’t really thought out a game plan past getting through Keith’s door. It’s fine! He can wing it. Talk normally like they always do, don’t think about how there’s potentially a dozen more blood bags hiding in Keith’s freezer, don’t get distracted by how good Keith looks even though he’s only dressed in gray sweats and a ratty tee, lines under his eyes that somewhat resemble dark circles…

“Do you sleep in a coffin?” It’s the first thing that blurts out of his mouth.

Keith blinks at him for what feels to be a solid minute before he answers.

“No… I sleep in a regular bed.” A small smile tilts his lips, amber light from the fading sun catching in his hair and irises. “It’s a lot more comfortable than a box six feet under.”

Lance snorts around a laugh, heartbeat racing frantically. This time though, it’s not from the rush of fear but rather the thrill of bantering with Keith, soft and familiar. “So you guys aren’t actually like Count Dracula and have to hide in darkness all day and shape-shift into bats?”

Keith’s smile slips loose along with his shoulders, weight relaxing against the countertop. “I’m standing under the sun right here, aren’t I?” he points out. _Oh,_ duh _Lance, right._ “No to the bat-shifting, too. Dracula was a real vampire, but he used the pseudonym Bram Stoker to write his book with a load of crap details just to fuck with people.”

“Oh, well that’s rude of him.”

“Yeah, he was kind of dick. I think he eventually got eaten by a werewolf.”

“There are werewolves?!” Keith opens his mouth to speak but Lance quickly shushes him, holding a finger up. “Wait, don’t answer that. My brain can’t handle any more right now.”

He chugs his water while Keith releases a huff, note of laughter in the sound. When Lance is finished, he sees Keith is smiling quietly at him, seemingly waiting for his next question. Lance clears his throat, the back of his neck burning hot.

“Anyway, so, uh. You’re okay with sunlight? I mean, obviously, since I’ve seen you walking outside during the day before.”

Keith nods, extending his arm forward for Lance’s empty glass, but keeping the conscious distance between them. Lance slides it across the counter with a murmured thanks.

“Sort of,” Keith says, filling the glass back up with the water pitcher by the sink. “We don’t actually get burned to ashes the moment we step into the sun, but we do get something like sunstroke and always have to drink a lot before we go out.”

“Where do you guys get your blood?” Lance can’t believe he just asked that question. He can hardly believe he’s having this conversation.

“From hospitals.” Keith sets the full glass down and carefully pushes it toward him. 

“Do you kill people for it?”

“ _No_.” Keith sounds almost horrified. “No, definitely not. Killing human civilians is illegal even among our kind. That might’ve happened centuries ago, but we don’t do that anymore.”

Okay, well. That’s a _huge_ relief to know.

“Have you ever gotten a blood test?” Keith continues, leaning against the counter once more. Lance nods. “That blood doesn’t just get dumped. After it’s processed, it’s sent to one of our facilities where it’s packaged and sorted by type and level of quality. The healthier the blood is, the better it tastes, and the more energy we can get out of it.”

“So, like. Instead of glucose powering your cells, you guys get power from blood?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Lance wrinkles his nose. “Gross, but kinda cool I guess.” He mulls the information for a bit longer before realizing: “Wait, if you guys have running cells, does that mean the undead part of the myth is false too?”

“Yup, we’re born like everyone else, except we live longer, up to a millennia.” The nonchalant way Keith is handing over this information is almost funny. Lance lets out a low, impressed whistle.

“Then, like, how old are you?”

Keith pauses for a beat, the only piece of knowledge he’s hesitated to give thus far. “Since eighteen-thirty-seven.”

Lance brandishes his wrist in the air impatiently. “I can’t do math, remember?”

“I’m a hundred and eighty.”

“What the fuck?!”

At Lance’s reaction, Keith bursts out laughing, whole body crumpling over from the force of it. His shoulders shake and he’s clutching onto his waist, clear, belly-deep laugh warming the air like an autumn sun. Lance is momentarily wonderstruck, the carefree image of Keith so familiar and comforting, he might actually cry from relief.

Keith really is still… Keith. Earnest, funny, and sweet. The only difference now is that Lance knows even more about him, like how he’s technically a century old senior citizen who doesn’t sleep in a coffin and needs blood for nourishment.

None of that has to change anything, of course, except maybe Lance’s perception of Keith’s actual intelligence.

“Dude, you’re totally cheating on our history tests then!” he accuses, pointing a finger. “You’ve lived through it all!”

“What can I do about it when my brain is a primary source?” Keith shrugs with a cheeky smirk.

“I don’t know, just stop thinking during the test!”

This time when Keith laughs, Lance joins in, fully aware that his suggestion is ridiculous. He feels an enormous weight being lifted off his shoulders, ease and contentment settling into place like a warm blanket. It feels so _right_ , laughing together, being comfortable in each other’s presence.

“You, um, wanna sit down?” Keith gestures to the living room with a tilt of his head. Lance can tell by the tell-tale cross of his arms that he’s nervous, protecting himself. Keith’s asking him if he wants to stay, and is prepared for the rejection if Lance says no.

That’s not going to happen of course, not when Lance just managed to get Keith back.

“Sure,” he says, walking around the counter with bounce in his step, hoping to reassure Keith with his laid-back demeanor. It seems to do the trick, with Keith smiling in return as if Lance had hung the moon for him. “I’m not doing anything tonight, and I have a ton of questions that still need answering, so you better be prepared.”

They settle onto one of the sectional couches, sitting on opposite sides but closing the distance just a tad. “Shoot,” Keith says. 

“How long have you guys existed?”

“A little before the start of civilization.” Their feet are almost touching; they would if Lance stretched his legs out a few more inches. “A lot of major historical figures are actually vampires.”

“Oh my god, like who?”

“Mmm, to name a couple, there’s Cleopatra, Genghis Khan, and Mother Teresa. And stars like Audrey Hepburn and Prince…”

“Are the Kardashians vampires?” Lance interrupts, needing to know. For science.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“But Beyoncé is.”

“BEYONCÉ?!” The pitch of Lance’s shriek could shatter the atmosphere. He doesn’t even register how hard Keith’s laughing, almost rolling onto the floor, too mind-blown by this discovery. “I knew it! No human being can be that gorgeous and flawless and powerful!”

Keith takes big lungfuls of air, wiping tears from his eyes as he rights himself.“Yeah, she’s pretty great. I’ll get you an autograph the next time I go over for dinner.”

“‘The next time I go over for dinner,’” Lance mimics, grin split wide with amazed disbelief. He closes the distance and bumps his foot against Keith’s playfully, the touch causing Keith’s eyes to widen in surprise. He can’t resist Lance’s infectious smile and quickly returns the gesture, toe tickling the arch of Lance’s foot, making him giggle. “What the hell, Keith. That’s some next level shit. Oh! That reminds me, you have super powers, right? Like, you definitely teleported the other day you caught up to me so fast which was _freaky as shit_ but…”

Their conversation carries well into the night, neither of them noticing the time passing by. They order pizza when Lance gets hungry, and Keith explains a bunch of complex stuff about vampire anatomy that Lance only half comprehends while licking his fingers clean of pizza grease. Keith opts not to eat, even when Lance assured him that he wouldn’t freak out like he did the first time. Plus, he was morbidly curious to see it? Like how you watch a horror movie with your hands over your eyes, but you leave a gap between your fingers to peek through.

Keith remains resolute with his decision though, which, oh well. Maybe another time. Lance learns plenty of other facts anyway, like how vampires have super senses, strength, and speed; mature much slower and heal much faster even when limbs are lost; and tend to group into factions spread all around the world, with their own system of power and version of history that hasn’t been tailored to fit human standards.

The most surprising fact Lance learns is that, contrary to popular belief, they can’t turn a human being into a vampire with a bite. The practice is taboo, and the victim usually dies from blood loss, remaining as a corpse in the ground rather than reanimating back to life.

Lance is fascinated by all of it, mind wheeling to absorb as much information as possible. He’s so busy asking questions that he forgets to check what time it is, until his phone chimes with a text from his dad, asking him when he’s coming back.

“It’s late. I can drive you home?” Keith sits up from his slouched position on the couch, arm shifting against Lance’s shoulder. Lance, on the other hand, melts further into the cushions, starting to feel the exhaustion creep in on him. He stretches sluggishly with a yawn, moaning deep when he hears his vertebrae crack one, two, three times. Man, that felt good. He pushes his shirt back down where it rode up on his stomach and shakes his limbs loose, bouncing on his bum to get the blood flowing again.

He’s oblivious to Keith’s mental meltdown even as he turns to face him.

“Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks.” He smiles sleepily before sobering up, pinning Keith with a solemn stare. “Umm, one last question though, is that okay?”

He watches with silent amusement as Keith nods, Adam’s apple visibly bobbing. He’s nervous again, good. Lance takes a deep breath.

“Does your dick sparkle?”

The pillow Keith throws at his face is, well. Deserved.

 

.

.

.

 

“So you guys are like, lobsters.”

“What.”

“You know, how they live in the sea forever until something kills them? So, lobsters. But like, really nice looking lobsters.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“My stunning lobster fact or my mind-blowing comparison?”

“Yes.”

Lance levels Keith with a dubious squint, popping the spoon of ice cream from his mouth with a smack. He’s at Keith’s penthouse again, sitting in one of the chairs of the dining room, asking questions nonstop since he’s arrived. There are so many of them, especially when every answer leads to even more questions, and at this rate he’s not sure if he’ll ever get through them all.

Keith’s been really good about responding to him patiently and thoroughly, though right now he’s kind of gawking like a beached fish — just keeps staring at Lance with this dazed, awestruck look in his eyes.

It’s enough to make anyone blush.

“Hello? Bat signal to Keith? Are you there?”

Lance waves his spoon around but there’s still no response. On a whim, Lance decides to drag his tongue over the spoon, fluttering his lashes coyly as he gives the long utensil a slow, seductive lick.

That seems to get the desired effect, because Keith’s eyes stretch to the size of saucers. He nearly topples out of his chair while Lance howls at his reaction.

“Your face!” he wheezes, thumping the butt of the spoon on the counter and clutching his stomach. Keith rights himself with a scowl, cheeks tinted red and mullet in a disarray. Lance wishes he could take a picture of how flushed and flustered he looks.

Keith coughs. “Sorry, I— I just can’t believe you’re here. I thought last night I had hallucinated the whole thing.” His scowl slips into a self-conscious smile, and he says it so sincerely that now it’s Lance’s turn to flush bright red.

“Of course I’m here,” he mumbles, attempting a nonchalant shrug. “You missed school again today, so I wanted to visit. Oh, Hunk and Pidge wish you a speedy recovery with your ‘stomach virus,’ by the way.” He lifts his ice cream and motions for them to move to the living room, wanting to slump on the couch. Keith grabs a bottle of water and follows along.

“No, I mean. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me ever again, after learning about what I am.”

They plop onto the velvety cushions, Lance’s back pillowed by a mound of assorted pillows, socked feet wiggling in the air before he settles himself with a pleased sigh. Keith’s much more reserved, sitting on the opposite end of the couch with his legs crossed, uncapping his water bottle. Compared to yesterday, he looks much better rested, and it seems like he’s given his mullet a wash. Lance feels nothing but fondness when taking in the sight of him, and it’s almost too easy to forget that Keith isn’t exactly human.

“After some thinking I figured, well, you’re still Keith. Plus, if you’ve held back eating me this long, I doubt I’m in any danger of getting sucked off.”

Keith inhales his water sharply and starts coughing up a lung. Lance pays him no mind, finishing his ice cream happily and setting the empty carton to the side.

“Hey, do you think I would taste good to a vampire?”

Keith wipes his mouth. There’s a brief look of panic in his eyes before his expression smooths over. “No, absolutely not.”

“Wow, rude.” Lance feels weirdly… disappointed? “I eat organic. I drink a green juice every Saturday. I gotta taste good.”

“You also ate an entire carton of ice cream just now plus a bag of Hot Cheetos.” Keith smirks, nudging him with his foot. “Too much sugar in you to taste good.”

Lance sighs, heavy and dramatic. “You vampires don’t know a luxury when you see one.”

Keith snorts but doesn’t disagree, something Lance takes distinct notice of. 

His gaze turns to the view of the New York skyline outside the window, glimmering gradually to life in the indigo night. The city somehow seems different now in Lance’s eyes, as if it’s restructured itself along with the changing architecture of what he’s learned and what he’s cast aside.

“I don’t think I would mind getting eaten by a vampire,” he hums absentmindedly, the needle of the Empire State Building glowing scarlet red. It blazes bright before fading into purple and blue, the transition of colors a calming rhythm.

He nearly misses the hitch of Keith’s breath from behind him. 

“Don’t say that.”

Lance turns back around, smiling mischievously. “Will you show me your fangs?”

“No.”

“Come oooooon. You said they were retractable, I wanna see.” Lance reaches for him, but Keith leaps off the couch and, in the blink of an eye, is on the other side of the room, over a dozen yards away.

Lance huffs, knowing there’s no way he can give chase and win against his super speed. But…

He falls backwards onto the couch, curling into a ball. Summoning his best crocodile tears, he sniffles loudly for good measure, and just as he expected, Keith’s back to hovering by his side in an instant.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, tone on the edge of panic. Lance almost feels bad for genuinely worrying him. He waits until Keith’s weight sinks onto the cushion, feeling his hand gently rub the dip between his shoulder blades. Then, when his gut tells him that he’s got his target where he wanted him, he springs into action.

Fast as a whip, Lance has Keith pinned to the couch, hands gripping his wrists and legs straddling his hips. Keith stares up at him in shock, a flicker of admiration lighting his eyes before it’s stamped out by the crease of his brows.

“Aha! The hunter becomes the hunted!” Lance declares triumphantly, delighted that his plan had worked.“Open up, now. Let’s see those pearly whites.”

Keith, rather than submitting — cause duh, he’s Keith — utters a growl, the dark, animalistic sound vibrating straight through Lance’s core. And _holy shit_ , that does so many things to his insides that he never thought possible.

Before he realizes, he’s the one flat on his back, Keith fit snugly between the vee of his legs, looming over him.

“Stop,” he grunts, glaring down at Lance. That kind of does things to Lance’s insides, too, especially in the position that they’re in.

“Or what, you’ll spank me?”

Okay, Lance has no idea why he said that; making dumb, inappropriate jokes is his coping mechanism, all right?! The groan that escapes Keith in response is both agonized and exasperated, lips curling back, inadvertently revealing his teeth. Lance watches in awe as the front two canines contract, lengthening into matching, razor-sharp incisors.

“Woah,” he breathes, reaching up to touch one of the ivory fangs, the pad of his index just grazing its surface. He doesn’t even register his action until Keith flinches away, hand grabbing Lance’s wrist so hard it’s almost painful.

“Don’t,” Keith rasps, somewhere deep and guttural, like it physically hurts to breathe. The grip he has on Lance’s wrist is sure to bruise, but Lance barely feels it, too enraptured by the flare of color in Keith’s eyes. That deep, ruby red flooding his irises, pupils blown wide.

It’s like the first night Lance saw them, but so much stronger. Keith seems to be gone, chest heaving from the force of his breaths, lips brushing the underside of Lance’s wrist, eyes fluttering shut.

Lance shivers at the caress, fingers and toes curling, pleasure weakening his body and judgement.

“Hey, I thought you said you didn’t want to eat me,” he murmurs, voice faltering into a moan as Keith kisses his skin wetly, hot breath ghosting over the cool wake of his tongue. “Keith—?”

Keith’s ears flick at the sound of his name, and Lance watches as a moment of clarity sinks into his eyes. His grip loosens around Lance’s wrist, but before either of them can move, the front door slams open.

“Master Keith, I have— news…”

Regris stops short in the foyer, catching sight of Keith bent over Lance in what appears to be a very compromising position.

Crap. Shit.

They spring apart instantly, hands scrambling to tidy their clothes, faces red as a fire hydrant.

“Uhhh, hey. Regris.” Keith clears his throat, standing up to greet his uncle. Or not uncle really, Lance corrects himself, remembering what Keith had told him in one of their conversations earlier.

“Hello to you, too. I see I’ve interrupted something. Should I come by later?” Regris’s tone and expression are pleasantly neutral, but Lance has the feeling that he’s got the most shit-eating grin masked on the inside. Keith seems to hesitate in making his decision, so Lance makes it for him.

“It’s fine, you guys should talk. I have to get back home before my mom and dad start worrying again.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Keith offers immediately, but Lance shakes his head. He doesn’t want Keith to think he’s running away from what just happened, though, so he takes his hand and strokes his thumb, until Keith smiles back at him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, letting go. “You can’t blame the stomach virus forever.”

Keith nods, a promise. “I’ll be there.”

“Awesome. Later then.” Lance grabs his coat and bag from off the couch, spinning on his heel to wave to bye to Regris, too. “It was good to see you again.”

“You as well, Lance,” Regris replies. The smile on his lips lingers for a fraction too long, something changing in his eyes. Curiously, Lance thinks he sees gold.

A shadow then passes over his face that disappears so quickly, Lance wonders if he imagined it.

As he rides the elevator down, he figures he’ll just have to ask Keith tomorrow at school what Regris’s reaction could’ve meant. Hopefully Lance hadn’t offended him in some way. He liked Regris’s care-free demeanor, and it was both strange and thrilling to know that he's a vampire, too.

When he exits the Plaza, his thoughts inevitably go back to the moment on the couch, body warm and thrumming all over again at the memory.

What really knocked him over, though, was this: He hadn’t felt scared. In fact, he had _wanted_ Keith to bite him. Could almost imagine the fangs sinking in, breaking flesh, Keith drinking from him soft and slow.

_All right, you kinky lil’ bitch, calm down._

Lance buries his face into his coat to hide his grin, unable to contain the excitement and hopefulness building inside him. As he walks down to street to the subway station, another stooped-over old lady bumps into his waist. But again, he’s so deep into his thoughts, he doesn’t pay her any mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot longer than usual, so if you made it to the end, thanks for baring with me, lol!! ^^
> 
> Unfortunately, this story will have to take a 2 month hiatus, since I'll be taking a grad school application exam in May that will literally determine the course of my future, yikes. When I write for this story, it generally takes several days of my time, so although I'm really bummed about having to drop it for the time being, I think it's for the best. The stress will probably ruin the quality of writing too if I try to juggle two things at once, and I feel that this has already been showing in the past 2 chapters or so. 
> 
> I hope you'll choose to stick around. I'll work hard to return as soon as I can with better chapters. I might still be writing and posting short drabbles on my writing tumblr, since I'm pretty sure I'd go crazy if I stopped doing what I enjoy cold turkey, lol. Catch me there, if you'd like. 
> 
> Until next time!! ♥


	8. secret's out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @swordiris on twitter for the amazing [art](https://twitter.com/swordiris/status/979800947709820928) she drew loosely based off this story, and all the attention it garnered. To all new readers, thank you for subscribing. To everyone who commented and wished me good luck on my grad school exam and studies, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much ♡
> 
> So much has changed since I last updated this. Just in the month of April, my life has turned upside down because of a choice I made. If you're interested in knowing about it and why I've updated before I originally planned to, you can read it [here.](https://ephemelody.tumblr.com/post/173148823350/hey-so-an-explanation-if-any-of-you-follow-me)
> 
> Finally, thank you to @peachgrdn & @swordiris again for reading over this chapter. Special thanks to @k0bot_ for sponsoring my writing!! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

In the hundred and eighty years he’s been alive, Keith has gone through a lot of shit.

This, however, might just be it. The thing that does him in.

“…Do you want to talk about it?”

“ _No._ ”

“Vigorous pubescent hormones are nothing to be ashamed of, Keith.”

“Regris that is actually _the worst_ thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Keith aims a pillow at Regris’s head as he face-plants into the couch, wanting to disappear in-between the cushions and never come out. He’s surprised that the heat of his skin doesn’t melt everything around him, his composure utterly lost now that Lance has left the apartment.

From somewhere above, Regris is laughing, patting the heel of his foot to get him to sit up. Keith does so with a grunt, wondering how a single day could change so quickly.

A mere minute ago he had Lance pinned beneath him, nearly consumed by the bloodlust he swore he would never give in to. An hour before that he was busy convincing himself that the past few days have all been a fever dream. That Lance never came back to him. That Lance never found out his secret.

Part of Keith still can’t believe that — after being so, excruciatingly careful this whole time — in the end it was his brother who exposed him.

Shiro, having been home for most of break, had carelessly left his ration out in the open. Maybe he’d been in a rush to catch the train back to school, or maybe he’s simply gotten too used to being himself around the comfort of his boyfriend. Whatever the reason, the damage had been done.

Lance had seen it.

Lance had left Keith because of it. 

“Does Lance know who you are now, Keith?” Regris asks, sitting on the opposite side of the coffee table, arms coming to rest against his knees. He already knows the answer, Keith can tell, but he nods anyway, face still too flushed to look up. “And he accepted you, despite the fact?”

Keith stares at the empty carton of ice cream still left on the table, proof that Lance had been here. When he speaks, he feels a rush of warmth, strong and sure.

“Yes, he came back to me.”

_Like some cruel, cosmic joke. Like a blessing._

After three days trapped in a cycle of anxiety, indecision, and heartache, Keith thought maybe he’d lost his mind when Lance had shown up at his doorstep, smiling. He couldn’t believe that Lance was sitting in front of him in the kitchen. Couldn’t fathom why Lance was asking him questions, one after another, as if nothing between them would have to be different.

How could Lance come back to him, after finding out about Keith in the worst possible way? How could Lance smile at him so easily, so warmly, after the fear Keith had caused him? In the time they spent apart, Keith had convinced himself that he had lost Lance permanently. Had told himself, again and again, that that was for the best.

But then Lance had walked back into his life. Not only for a second time, but a third.

And now Keith’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to let him go.

“What was the thing you needed to talk about, Regris?” Keith asks, running a hand through his hair, directing his attention back to the present. There were larger issues at hand in need of addressing. For now, the dilemma with Lance would have to wait.

The expression on Regris’s face dims, hand reaching into the lining of his coat to pull out a file, black and thin. When he flips open the page, Keith sees a picture of Callan’s corpse, ash gray with blood red ligatures threaded through his skin.

“There’s been a breakthrough,” Regris says, and Keith’s eyes dart to the report, scanning through the contents. “Trigel’s faction has determined the cause of the rogue vampires to be a virus, one that mimics Resurrection.”

Keith’s eyes narrow in on the term just as Regris voices it, shock bolting through his core. “Resurrection? That’s—”

“Ancient Witch magic, yes.” Regris seems similarly disturbed when Keith looks up, the darkness of the room drawing shadows. “There was some residue left in the wound on Callan’s body. Whatever staked him eventually brought him back to life, though not as himself, clearly.”

“How can there be Witch magic when—?”

 _The Witches are all extinct._ The Trials made sure of that. It’s been over three centuries since the last Witch was burned alive. Their kind had always loved humans too deeply, and ultimately, they were betrayed. After paying that price, the remaining handful disappeared, leaving behind their magic and their Covens, an eternal reminder of their power and demise.

Though they were allies till the end, vampires were once at war with the Witches at the start of their shared history. One method of attack the Witches used had been Resurrection: the incantation to bring back the dead. The vampires revived were used against their own, mindless creatures devoured by bloodlust and carnage, stronger and deadlier but utterly vulnerable to sunlight.

Regris shuts the folder, tucking it back into his coat. For once, he looks older than he is, lines etched into the corners of his mouth, tawny eyes muted. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Your brother’s already been briefed by Kolivan. He’s working on an antidote with Elder Slav.” He moves to get up, Keith mirroring to follow. “Meanwhile, Thace, Antok, and I will be on a reconnaissance mission to see if we can find out who’s responsible. Ilun and Vrek will be your escorts for the time being.”

A strand of forlornness coils in Keith’s chest, but he shrouds it with a wry smile. “Can’t wait to hand me off to someone else, huh?”

“Ah, I see you’re onto me.” 

They both laugh, but the twinge puncturing Keith’s heart doesn’t lessen. Decades have passed with Regris steadfast by his side. Keith will miss him, even if the mission is brief, God willing. Regris has a kid on the way; the Covenant shouldn’t be sending him out in the first place.

Regris heads to the door, but stops near the foyer, turning around. Keith can’t discern the faint light in his eyes, the way Regris seems to appraise him.

“Keith, how long have you known Lance?”

The question is innocent enough, but Keith knows better. A shot of apprehension pulses through.

“Since school started. Why?”

Regris smiles softly. “I know who he is to you, Keith.”

The apprehension ripples into dread, spilling all the air out of Keith’s lungs. _Shit._ Right. Regris’s eyes that can see through secrets. Faulty though it may be at times, when it works, nothing can be hidden from Regris’s knowledge. Keith should’ve known that if Shiro never found out, his most trusted retainer would eventually.

“It was brief, but my eyes caught a glimpse of the truth when the two of you were together just now,” Regris continues, stepping closer. He doesn’t seem mad, almost apologetic even, like he regrets prying into Keith’s life. And though the secret was Keith’s to keep, he should’ve never had it to begin with.

“Please don’t tell Shiro.” Keith hears himself say, voice sounding like it echoes from somewhere else, somewhere far away. If his brother ever found out, if his brother ever knew what he had done—

“I won’t. I wouldn’t, not when I’ve seen how happy he’s made you.” Regris places a hand onto Keith’s shoulder, eyes warm. Keith stares at him, some part of him disbelieving. “You’ve changed, Keith, since last year, and I know it’s because you met him.”

“I hadn’t meant to. I never felt that way before, and he was—” _Everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I couldn’t have. And—_ “I couldn’t just _leave_ him to—”

“Keith, Keith it’s okay. I know.” Regris’s voice is gentle as he reassures him, both hands lifting to hold his shoulders firm and comforting. He bends just so to look Keith in the eye, and in that moment, Keith feels a pang of nostalgia for a father who left too soon. “You may not believe me, but trust when I say that I know what it’s like.”

Keith’s brows crease in question, but Regris only smiles, as if to say: _next time._

“Hold on to Lance, Keith. Keep him safe. Tell him, someday, and let him make the decision on his own. Give him the _chance_ to. You are my Master, but you are also my family. And right now, it is my greatest wish that you will always remain happy.”

At those words, gratitude floods through Keith. Fierce, overwhelming. Tears prick hotly against the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them back, not wanting Regris to see him cry. So instead, he says: “You’re becoming more and more like a dad by the second.”

The glimmer in Regris’s eyes could be tears, too. “Well, I have had ample practice taking care of you.”

Keith laughs, swiping at his face with the back of his hand.

“Thank you, Regris.”

The expression has never felt truer. Not just for this instance of kindness, but for everything that Regris has ever done for him. From the bottom of his heart, Keith has always considered him a second father. 

Regris smiles, stepping back to bend in a bow, hand over heart.

“I’ll see you soon, Master Keith.”

 

.

.

.

 

Lance is the first to notice him.

He’s standing at his locker, prattling on with Hunk and Pidge by his side. When Hunk says something funny, his whole face crinkles, laughter big and bright. The back of his hair is mussed, like he didn’t have time to comb it down for the day. It’s cute, those carefree curls. Keith lingers at the opposite end of the hallway, the glow of Lance’s happiness seeping in, warming him through.

Unbidden, the image of Lance pinned underneath him comes to mind, and Keith can’t smack it out of his head fast enough.

Lance’s hair fanned dark against the pillows. Lance’s throat flushed red with color. The sound of his voice, broken with gasps.

A different kind of warmth burns in Keith’s gut. _You need to be more careful_ , he berates himself. That had been too close of a call, Lance’s vein right below his teeth, blood hot and rich and pulsing.

In that moment, Keith had hardly been able to discern Lance’s feelings from his own. Keith knew exactly what he wanted, but Lance?

Lance had wanted Keith to bite him, and Keith doesn’t know how to deal with that.

“Keith!” Lance calls, waving at him. Keith startles slightly, quickly collecting himself before walking over.

“Hey man, good to see you again.” Hunk slaps his back, the good-natured force of which actually buckling Keith’s knees in. “Lance was just detailing how you projectile vomited an exact replica of Mothman into your carpet.”

“I what now?”

Lance elbows forward, gesticulating wildly. “He got the ass and everything, it was amazing! I didn’t think he would make it out alive puking that much. I had to nurse him back to health from my own breast.”

He slips in a wink at Keith, and — despite his defamatory yet imaginative slander — Keith feels his heart skip a beat.

“ _Disgusting,_ ” Pidge mutters from somewhere below, nose wrinkling as Hunk covers their ears and scolds: “Lance, what did we say about keeping things Pidge-rated?”

“Sorry, from my own _boob_.”

“I’ll shove a whole boob up your mouth!”

“Oh, I’d _love_ that—!”

Keith snorts a laugh as Pidge wrestles Lance into a headlock, sharing a smile with Hunk who rolls his eyes.

It feels good to be back with his friends again, being part of something so normal.

“Anyway, guess what Matt asked me yesterday?” Pidge dusts their hands off, having effectively noogied Lance into submission. Keith registers the familiar name with a prick of alarm, wondering if he heard correctly.

“Pray tell, Pidgeot?” Lance asks, draping himself over them, even though just two seconds ago he was cursing the ‘gremlin’ to hell and back.

Pidge lets him stick like a koala, bearing his weight without complaint as they explain with an air of incredulity: “Whether or not I knew how to reverse engineer a virus. Like, I thought he was studying astrophysics! Not molecular biology.”

“Maybe he’s branching out?”

“Psh, unlikely. The only biology Matt’s ever cared about is the evolution of — and I quote — ‘dank memes.’”

Lance and Hunk burst out laughing, shutting their lockers just as the bell rings. Keith would join in, if he wasn’t so preoccupied.

“Where does your brother go?” he asks, voice carefully neutral. They start walking down the hall toward their respective classes, taking their time in the last five minutes.

“MIT. He’s got an internship there with his boyfriend and their crazy professor, Sven or Slav or something.”

 _Fuck_.

 _Seriously?!_ This whole time, Matt was Pidge’s brother? Keith could kick himself, realizing the resemblance now. He’s only ever seen Matt’s picture once from Shiro’s phone, and he’s not the best with faces, but had he put the two of them side by side, the similarities would’ve been as plain as day.

That means Matt’s working directly on the antidote with Shiro, and he’s even asking Pidge about it. Keith could feel the walls closing in, the fault lines around his secret widening. He’s never been the type for long-term planning or weighing the consequences of his actions, and right now it’s becoming increasingly clear that there are too many variables he didn’t account for.

There would only be so much time left until Shiro found out.

“What’s wrong?”

Lance gently bumps their shoulders together as Hunk and Pidge disappear into their classrooms, blue eyes searching his. They pause in the middle of the hallway, students parting and shifting around them, giving them a momentary respite.

Time always feels different, slower yet never enough, when he’s with Lance.

“I’ll tell you later.”

 

.

.

.

 

It’s definitely not warm enough to be practicing soccer outside, not that Coach Iverson gives a damn.

Snow drifts sluggishly from the sky, even as the sun peeks through a gap in the clouds. Keith can’t feel the cold, comfortable in his red and black soccer jersey with the gold Garrison “LIONS” emblazoned on the front. His teammates, on the other hand, are all shivering, griping under their breaths while Iverson makes them do five more circuits of warm ups.

Lance is watching from behind the low fence, bundled up warm and blue. There’s no point in denying that his presence alone is a huge morale boost for Keith. Normally he doesn’t even try during practice — unless it’s a practice game and his competitive pride demands it — but today he makes the extra effort to score goal after goal, solidifying his position as the lead striker of the team.

By the end of practice, he hasn’t broken a sweat, but he lifts the hem of his shirt anyway to dab at his forehead, exposing his stomach and chest. At the pulse of familiar heat in his stomach, he hides his smile.

“Show-off,” Lance says when he jogs over, tossing a towel at him. Keith catches it with an innocent quirk of his brow, playing dumb. Judging by the scowl that gets thrown at him, too, Lance doesn’t buy his act for a second. “Are you using your abilities when you play soccer?”

“No, don’t need them,” Keith quips, tussling his hair with the towel while taking a swig from his water bottle. Lance narrows his eyes in response, lips tilting in a grudging yet impressed smile.

“Wow, your humbleness astounds me. Turn around, I’m gonna tie up that mullet of yours.”

He pulls off one of his many hair-ties on his wrist, a blue and red beaded one that catches the pale, winter light. Keith obeys, leaning his back against the fence as Lance gathers up his hair, hands brushing through the soft strands. His fingers are dexterous — years of practice braiding hair for a younger sister — and Keith suppresses a hum of content as Lance massages his scalp with each gentle tug.

“M’kay, done.”

Keith turns around, touching the low ponytail curiously. It’s neat and short, snug against the nape of his neck. When his eyes shift back up, he sees Lance giving him a strange look, nose scrunched and cheeks dusted pink.

“Oh no,” he says.

“What?”

Lance’s arms shoot out and Keith dodges. “Turn back around! I should’ve given you pigtails!”

“Not happening,” Keith says with a snort, laughing as Lance buries his face into his hands and groans. The color of his skin glows brighter with each second.

“ _Ugh_ , why are you so…” he mumbles, trailing off. From behind his fingers, he glares at Keith lightly, looking adorably ruffled. Keith’s about to ask when he feels that pool of warmth again, thick and simmering in his gut.

He makes a mental note to tie up his hair more often.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

After gathering up his bags and changing in the locker room, Keith meets Lance in the parking lot. Words aren’t needed anymore as they slot together on the bike, Lance’s chin coming to rest against Keith’s shoulder, arms folding snug around Keith’s waist. He’s utterly comfortable and at ease now, even egging Keith to go faster as they peel onto the street.

Above the rush of the wind, at every stop sign and stop light, Keith explains the situation with Matt. Lance listens silently, almost unnaturally quiet. When Keith finishes, he breaks into a bright fit of giggles, helmet bumping between Keith’s shoulder blades.

Keith feels his heart twist at the way Lance curls around him even tighter. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, wishing he could thread their fingers together against his stomach. Wishing the light would never turn green. 

“Nothing, it’s just…” Lance hums blithely, warm breath brushing the nape of Keith’s neck. “I can’t believe Matt is dating your brother. The world is so weird.” The light changes, and it’s not until the next stop that Lance speaks again. “When I was doing my first audition at Juilliard, Pidge joked about Matt dating a vampire. And then later that day, I met you.”

Keith’s not quite sure what to make of that, only that it makes him smile, too. A soft, private happiness nestles in the hollow of his chest, one that blooms when Lance asks: “Do you believe in fate, Keith?”

“I didn’t.” _Not until you._

“I only believe in it when it’s a happy ending.”

“What do you want your happy ending to be?”

Lance doesn’t answer, words lost to the wind, and Keith wonders if they’re thinking the same.

Time passes too quickly, Lance’s house appearing around the corner. The front lights are on; Keith can hear the chime of voices inside, the clink of spoons and dishes. Lance stumbles off the bike, laughing as Keith grips his arm to steady him.

“So, we’re keeping your secret from Hunk and Pidge?” he asks, tugging his helmet off with a shake. Strands of chestnut hair float above his head and stick to his cheeks. Keith imagines smoothing those flyaway curls, gently gripping the back of his head and—

“For now, please.”

There’s a playful glint to Lance’s eyes. “What do I get in return for my silence?”

Keith’s brows crease in bemusement, but he doesn’t hesitate to ask, “What do you want?”

“Hmm…” Lance taps the swell of his bottom lip, feigning contemplation as he tips back and forth on his heels. “How about a kiss?”

At that, Keith immediately loses balance on the bike, the wild careen of his heart physically tilting him forward. Lance laughs at his reaction, lightly punching his shoulder to right him.

“I’m kidding, kidding! Your secret’s safe with me, free of charge.” He makes a zipping motion across his mouth, Keith following the line of it helplessly, wanting that kiss. Lance changes the subject though, smiling fondly as he reaches out. “You have an eyelash stuck to your cheek.” 

The pad of his thumb sends sparks across Keith’s skin as he brushes it off, holding it up for Keith to see.

“Make a wish,” he says, and Keith takes a breath.

_I wish for more time with you._

 

.

.

.

 

A few weeks pass by easily.

Keith slips into a routine, one that makes him feel more human than vampire some days. It’s almost too comfortable, homework and soccer practice and hang outs with Lance, Hunk, and Pidge. Kolivan still gives him hell in training, especially now that both Regris and Antok are gone. Interestingly, the attacks have also stopped, adding to the strange peace that’s settled in.

Keith wonders if it’s because the reconnaissance mission is making headway on the case.

“Master Marmora, you’re going to be late,” Ilun says, sweeping away the empty blood bags that Keith’s chugged. Keith nods distractedly, exiting the kitchen to look for his backpack and jacket. Vrek already has them set on the arm of the couch, standing rigid as a board by its side.

Keith wishes he would relax, along with Ilun. The two of them aren’t Regris in the slightest, more stiff and stubbornly formal toward Keith, unable to disregard the hierarchy. Keith doesn’t mind them, but he wishes Regris could come back soon. It’s already February. Alana’s due any day now.

Keith shrugs on his jacket and backpack, reaching for the hair tie Lance gave him on his wrist. He must’ve pulled on it too hard though, because the hair tie snaps, beads scattering all over the floor, purple haloes skittering in the white sunlight. Keith curses his own carelessness, wondering how he’s going to find all the beads and put them back together. 

He’s just about to pick them up when the doors burst open.

Alana rushes in, dark eyes fire-bright with fear. Her brown skin has lost all its warmth, the glow that she’s radiated for the past several months shadowed by panic and grief.

“It’s Regris,” she says, and Keith feels his heart freeze to a halt. “Something’s not right. I can’t— I can’t feel him!”

“Alana, what—?”

“One second he was there and then the next he disappeared! I can’t feel him anymore, I can’t reach him!”

“I don’t—” Keith tries to say, but in the back of his mind, he must’ve already known what she meant. The words echo inside him, somewhere deep and ancient. Somewhere frightfully familiar.

“ _We’re blood bonded!_ ”

The revelation hits like a blow to the chest, knocking all the breath out of Keith’s lungs. _Blood bonded. Regris and Alana are blood mates._

“He’s gone, Keith, he’s—”

Alana’s expression suddenly crumples, hand reaching to clutch at her swollen stomach. A broken whimper bleeds out of her, a sound Keith has never heard her utter.

“Alana—” he says, and catches her right before she collapses. Water trickles onto the marble floor, and Keith realizes with alarm what’s happening. “ _Alana!_ Alana hold on! Ilun, help me take her to the hospital!”

Ilun immediately hoists Alana into her arms, and Keith’s about to follow them out when Vrek grabs his shoulder, grip as strong as a vice.

“Master Marmora, Councilor Ulaz has summoned you. You’re needed immediately.”

 

.

.

.

 

Keith wonders how a day could change so quickly.

 

.

.

.

 

When he arrives at the Coven, he’s not prepared for what he sees.

A creature is at the center of the stage, black as coal and gaunt as bones. Clumps of hair and blood lay scattered across the floor, stripped from its scalp by its own fingers. It’s curled in on itself, quiet save for its torn whimpers and hollowed breaths. Smoke rises from its frame, pieces of skin chipping away like ash.

It takes a while for it to sink in that the creature is Regris.

“Keith,” Ulaz says, pushing his wheelchair toward him. He sounds exhausted. Empty. Thace is not by his side, nor is Antok. The only other people present are Kolivan and two other Marmora members.

“What happened?” The question barely passes the weight in Keith’s throat, cold and heavy. He can’t take his eyes off Regris. Can’t see past the static cut out of his former image, tawny eyes warm and smiling at Keith.

He doesn’t even realize he’s moving toward him until Ulaz holds him back.

“It seems our reconnaissance group was captured by the enemy. Thace and Antok executed themselves before they could be turned, but Regris…” Ulaz’s nails cut into Keith’s skin, fingers trembling. “He must have hesitated for the briefest second, knowing his daughter was on the way.”

More skin blisters off Regris’s form as he crawls around on his hands and knees, pitch black scales dissolving into the air. It looks as if he’s being burned from the inside out, every gutted breath ripped from his mouth drowned in agony. Keith feels his heart batter against his ribs at the sound, desperate to reach Regris, to save him from this slow, tortuous death. 

“The virus appears to be affecting him differently since he’s not a purebred. We found him here, like this. All he said was your name.”

“Let go of me,” Keith says, voice shaking. In the next moment he’s kneeling by Regris’s side, gripping his bloody hand even as the heat of it burns through his skin. Keith barely registers the pain.

Around them, Kolivan and the Marmora members tense, prepared to execute Regris if necessary. _Killed by his own family._ No, Keith won’t allow that.

“Regris? Regris, it’s me.”

Regris moans, head lifting slowly. When he looks at Keith, his eyes are still that familiar, warm color, only half-swallowed by red. _He’s still there,_ Keith thinks, desperate. _He’s still there._

_“Keith?”_

“I’m here.” Grief courses through him when Regris cries out again, the smoke rising from him darker and denser. He turns to Kolivan, fighting past the acid in his throat, the pressure in his eyes. “Is there any way to help him?” 

“He’s dead, Master Keith,” Kolivan says, and though Keith knows it’s the truth, every fiber within him screams against it.

“ _No_. No, he’s not.” He must be crying, angry, hot tears spilling over his skin. He turns back to Regris, holding him even as Regris disappears piece by piece in his hands. “Regris, stay with me. Please.”

“Master Keith, you have to let him go.”

Keith feels small again. Young. Helpless. _I am no Master, not when I can’t protect those closest to me._

Another breath shudders out of Regris. _“Keith. I’m sorry,”_ he says, and he sounds so far away. He sounds so far from reach. _“Tell my daughter I’m sorry.”_

“Regris, no. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

Through his pain, Regris smiles a half, broken thing. It fractures at the next onslaught of pain, the wound over his heart fissuring open, splitting his body apart. When he looks up again, his eyes are pure red. When he speaks again, Keith’s blood runs cold.

_“They know. They know about Lance.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') 
> 
> If you'd like, leave a comment below letting me know what you think!! Hope this chapter didn't disappoint after the hiatus >< I'll try my best to update more regularly from now on. 
> 
> You can find me @ephemelody on twitter and tumblr for writing updates and general screaming about life lol.


	9. don't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I would update at least once a month, but it looks like I didn't make it on time ><
> 
> Thank you so _so_ much to everyone who left a comment last chapter. I'm sorry I didn't respond to everyone, but know that I love and appreciate you to Pluto and back!! 
> 
> This chapter gets a bit bloody at the end... If you want to skip, start at "'Your taste is a special one'" and pick back up at "The creature roars when it catches sight of the man..."
> 
> Happy reading!

When Lance was younger, he used to get the worse nightmares.

He could never remember what they were about. Never pinpoint where the fear stemmed from. But every night he dreamed, and every night he woke in cold sweat, the echo of a scream jagged in his ears and rough in his throat.

Mamá or papá would come into his room shortly after, glass of water in hand and soothing song at the ready. Lance would always fall asleep to the lilt of their voices, dream forgotten until the next night.

Lately, the dreams seem to be coming back. Lance jolts awake out of breath, chest heaving and sweat clinging to his brow, legs tingling with the phantom sensation of a run. The clock by his bedside reads 9:35PM. There’s a textbook digging into his shoulder and a pen jabbing his thigh. He must’ve fallen asleep after dinner, going over his notes for the next history test.

 _History._ Keith wasn’t there at school again, and he hadn’t answered any of Lance’s texts either. Lance checks his phone to find no new notifications, aside from the usual social media alerts. A heaviness sinks in, and Lance tosses his phone to the foot of his bed with a sigh, tucking his knees against his chest and dropping his face into the crook of his arm.

“Where’d you go this time?”

He tries to even out his breathing; tries to shake off the pieces of dream still stuck to him. They’re more irregular now, but clearer in color, and maybe if Lance focused hard enough, he’d finally be able to make them out.

A chime from his phone cuts through his thoughts. When Lance sees who it is, he practically barrel rolls off the bed in his haste to answer it, limbs sprawling in a jumble on the floor.

“Keith?!” Lance clutches the phone in both hands, as if that would somehow keep Keith close. There’s no answer from the other end, save for the sound of ragged breathing. “Keith, are you there?”

“ _Come outside_.”

The line goes dead. It takes Lance a second to react, before he’s scrambling onto his feet and out the bedroom door. Papa calls after him from his study, wondering where he’s running off to. Lance fumbles with the excuse that he’s going over to Hunk’s house to bake oatmeal cookies, kicking on his shoes as fast as he could so that no more questions would be asked of him.

Outside, the late January air bites at his skin. Lance searches the quiet street for a sign of Keith, eyes squinting through the darkness where the light won’t reach. He carefully walks down the frosted steps, rubbing his hands together, wishing he’d thrown on something warmer.

Just as he’s about to pull out his phone again to call Keith, Lance feels the wind knocked out of him as he’s pushed against the wall behind. A hand gently cradles the back of his head, and Lance’s instinct to scream is lost at the familiar heat and scent of the person hugging him, arm tight around his waist.

“Keith?” Lance brings his arms up to hug him back, turning his cheek against Keith’s hair to see him. Keith’s grip only tightens, face buried into the juncture of Lance’s neck. It almost hurts, how bad he’s shaking. “What’s wrong?”

Wetness drips onto his collarbone, and Lance’s concern flares. Slowly, carefully, he coaxes Keith from his perch, pressing his lips into Keith’s hair, murmuring nonsensical comforts. He can’t hear what he’s saying above the pounding of his own heart; can’t feel much aside from the brush of hot tears as his hands reach to cup Keith’s jaw softly. When Lance finally sees his face, his heart stops, as if someone’s shoved a knife into his chest and twisted the hilt. 

Keith’s expression is tear-streaked. Grief-stricken. Anger and fear color his eyes, blood red in the faint beam of moonlight. When a cloud passes by, those eyes seem to brighten in intensity, matching the gleam of sharp canines as Keith’s lips pull back in a snarl.

 _He’s not entirely himself_ , Lance thinks, a beat of anxiety thrumming through his skin. He doesn’t try to escape Keith’s hold, though. He doesn’t try to run. Instead, Lance swipes away the tear tracks and keeps his voice low and soft, determined to save Keith from whatever that’s afflicting him.

“Ssshh, hey.” Lance ignores the pain and sinks into Keith’s bruising touch. “Hey, come back to me.”

A gutted whimper bleeds past Keith’s throat, brows twisted and breaths heavy. Lance keeps talking him through it, hands reaching to stroke Keith’s hair, knuckles grazing cheek. Despite the pallor of his skin, Keith is burning, like a wild fire trapped inside him. Gradually, the red in his eyes seeps away. Lance smiles when he sees those clear, dark irises, blinking sluggishly.

“There you are,” he sighs, relieved. His hand slips over Keith’s chest to measure the slowing rhythm, while the other nestles Keith’s face, thumb gently rubbing away the remaining tear stains. Keith leans into his touch, eyes slipping close as he presses his lips into the center of Lance’s palm, dropping open-mouthed kisses down to the inside of Lance’s wrist. Lance gasps at the sensation, fingers and toes curling as heat blooms lush in the pit of his stomach, throbbing tenderly.

“Don’t leave me.” Lance hears Keith whisper, his voice broken and raw. It splinters into Lance’s own chest, a burgeoning pang that aches down to his fingertips.

 _I won’t leave you,_ Lance wants to say, as Keith leaves one last kiss to the curve of his palm before falling forward, folding Lance into his arms again.

_I would never._

 

☼

 

Keith keeps him just as close when they’re inside.

He waits by the fire escape while Lance re-enters the house, tiptoeing up the stairs, heart in his throat. Under any other circumstances, Lance would’ve been ecstatic over the fact that he’s sneaking a boy into his room. _Finally_ , a taste of the teenage rebellion Lance has always strived for, if only he hadn’t grown up to be such a Mama’s boy.

Right now though, he’s too anxious about Keith to think much of his childhood aspirations. Keith isn’t even his boyfriend, so he’s not technically breaking the rules or doing anything ‘indecent’ as Mamá would put it. _Keith’s just a friend,_ Lance reassures himself as he locks the door behind him, _and he needs my help._

For a teenage boy, Lance knows his room is uncommonly neat, in spite of the small space. There’s a stain at the center of his carpet that won’t ever come out (ketchup, accident), and crayon colors etched into a patch of fading blue wall (twins, on purpose). But other than that, everything is tidy and well-kept, if not overflowing at the edges.

There’s a grid of photographs and Christmas lights mantled to one side of the room, above the heirloom drawer he inherited from his _Ita_ where all his clothes are shoved in. On the other side is an antique desk Papá found at a flea market, one that Lance uses more for makeup and nail polish than actual studying. The messiest part of the room would have to be his bed, pushed against the radiator, right beneath the window. Lance quickly sweeps his textbooks and papers to the floor, before unlatching the double panes to let Keith slip in.

They fall backwards onto the bed, Keith’s weight pressing Lance into the pillows. Lance tucks him against his chest, feeling how warm he still runs, the scent of campfire smoke drifting from his skin, every inch of his body covering Lance’s own—

Lance has to screw his eyes shut, trying his best to will away the frantic beating of his heart. He needs to put aside his own nerves for Keith’s comfort; he wants to be the support Keith needs.

Half-consciously, Lance starts humming the tune his parents used to sing for him after every nightmare, gently dragging his fingers through Keith’s hair.

“I was afraid they hurt you…” Keith finally murmurs, low and hoarse. His lips brush over Lance’s heart as he lifts himself up, shifting so that he’s lying next to Lance’s side. He can’t seem to bare to move too far away, and Lance doesn’t want him to leave.

Their legs tangle together as Lance cups his face, asking softly, “Who?”

Keith tells him everything. About the attacks that have been occurring for the past few months, the vampires going rogue, the investigation into the perpetrators…

What happened to Regris.

Tears prickle in Lance’s eyes when he learns of the older vampire’s fate, his heart breaking for Keith’s loss. Despite only meeting Regris a handful of times, it was plain as day how much he had mattered to Keith, how loved he was. _He’s always trying to be my dad,_ Keith used to complain, unaware that he was smiling. _He’s going to be a really good one, when his daughter arrives._

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Lance swallows the weight in his throat and offers what comfort he can — letting Keith hold him closer, letting Keith take what he needs. Keith’s eyes fall shut as he leans their foreheads together, breathing shallowly.

The knowledge that Keith feared for his safety, that Keith went to him as soon as he could to make sure no one would hurt him too, widens the fissure inside Lance’s ribcage. Keith, in all his grief and agony, still came to protect him. What could Lance do for him in return? How could Lance save him from suffering more pain?

“Are you going to find who killed him?” he asks when Keith opens his eyes again. In the warm lighting of Lance’s room, it’s still hard to read his expression, mouth drawn tight and irises ink black.

Something unbearable is inside him. Something he won’t let go. 

“I am.” Keith shifts to get up, body turning away from Lance. Lance feels uneasy at the implication. He sits up as well to follow him. “I won’t be at school for the next few days. My escort Vrek will be keeping an eye on you and your family for me, so you should be safe while I’m gone.”

Lance grabs his hand before he can move further away. “Keith, let me help.”

Underneath his hold, Keith goes stiff.

“You don’t need to worry about it,” he answers, curt.

“But I want to help,” Lance insists. “You can’t just tell me about all this and expect me to sit on my hands doing nothing.”

Keith turns around to pin him with a burning gaze. “And what could you possibly do?”

At the raise in his voice, Lance flinches. Keith immediately looks regretful, softening and leaning back in, tangling their fingers together, thumb swiping over the back of Lance’s hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” Lance shakes his head, understanding. “It’s just— I’m not gonna put you in any more danger, Lance. You could die. Aren’t you afraid?”

Lance can’t stand the pleading in Keith’s voice, feeling a flash of irritation mixed in with helplessness. “I’m not a damsel in distress, Keith! I can protect myself.”

“How? Do you know the difference between a vampire’s strength and a human’s?”

“No, I don’t, but it’s nothing I can’t handle!”

The next thing Lance knows, the ceiling spins above him, his wrists clasped in a vice grip beside his head. Keith’s eyes melt back to crimson, teeth glinting as he bares down on Lance, the very essence of a predator with his prey beneath his jaws.

“Any vampire could kill you,” Keith says, grasp tightening enough to bruise. Lance winces but holds his ground, unwavering until Keith speaks again, harsh and torn: “ _I_ could kill you.”

And that’s what hurts the most, more than anything else.

“Why would you say that?” Lance hates the way his voice breaks. Hates that he’s losing composure. “Is that your cheap, fucked up attempt to push me away?”

When Keith won’t meet his eyes again, Lance knows he hit the mark. He presses forward, refusing to let Keith get away with it. “You wouldn’t. You would _never_ hurt me, I know that.”

Keith releases him, backing up toward the window. “Stop. You should be scared of my kind, of what I am, not—”

“Oh, _shut up_ you boneless zombie!”

“Wha—”

Lance quickly straddles him, hands cupping his face to hold him in place. Keith blinks up owlishly, as if he’s been slapped and rendered speechless. In any other situation, Lance would be laughing at the artlessness of his expression, but right now he needs Keith to understand that there’s nothing he could do or say that would make Lance afraid of him. 

“You said ‘don’t leave me,’” Lance reminds him, softly. He listens to the hitch in Keith’s breath, feels his fingers fist into the sides of his shirt. “I won’t leave you, so don’t leave me either.”

Keith makes a wounded sound, and Lance wants nothing more than to soothe how broken he feels in his hands.

“I can’t let you get hurt because of me, Lance. Please.” Keith’s arms slip around his waist, pressing them flush from stomach to chest, as if melting together. “I can’t lose you too.”

He sounds so small and afraid. Lost and vulnerable. It’s a confession of one of his deepest fears, the weight of it heavy in the space between them.

Lance leans in until the tips of their noses brush, anchoring Keith steady. Taking a breath.

“You won’t.”

The knock on his door breaks the moment.

“Lance, who are you talking to?” comes Papá’s voice from the other side. Lance jolts, just as Keith runs a calming hand down his side, gently pushing him away. Lance gives him a meaningful look — _don’t leave_ — before climbing off the bed, making sure Papá doesn’t just barge in.

“I’m on the phone with Hunk,” he says, gripping the door knob just in case. “Our cookies turned out well!”

Papá’s laugh is muffled and tired. He hasn’t had a night off in weeks. “Tell him he’s welcome to bring some over tomorrow for dinner, then. Your Mamá and I miss him.” Lance cracks a joke that they miss Hunk more than their own son, and Papá laughs again. “Sleep soon, _mijo_. Goodnight.”

Lance listens to his footsteps shuffle down the hallway, the door to his own bedroom closing. When he’s sure the coast is clear, he turns back around, expecting Keith to still be there.

But the window is open, and Keith is gone. 

 

☼

 

“I’m! So! _Smad!_ ” Lance screams, the octave of his voice reaching earth-shattering levels. It bounces off the walls of the auditorium, and several people from outside even peek their heads in. 

“Sad _and_ mad? Oh no.” Pidge slams their book down. “Hunk, we need one of your snickerdoodles, stat!”

Hunk looks up from whatever he’s tinkering with, brows and nose smudged with oil to make his confusion extra dynamic. “What, why? Cause Keith isn’t here again? Don’t worry Lance. You saw the text message right?”

Oh, he saw the text message in the group chat all right: Keith making the most basic, unoriginal excuse of the century, visiting his great aunt ‘Meryl’ in Alaska cause she got mauled by a bear. He could’ve at least changed the bear to a killer whale. Amateur.

“Keith said he’ll be back soon, stop moping.” Pidge stuffs a snickerdoodle into his mouth and Lance chews it viciously, only semi-placated by its cinnamon-buttery goodness.

He’s been fuming since last night, after Keith spouted all that bull about keeping Lance safe yet simultaneously trying to push him out of his life. The faction member he assigned to Lance isn’t earning him any brownie points either, considering how Vrek has the personality of a goldfish and looks like a sexy version of Severus Snape, which just makes Lance feel confused and grossed out about himself. Luckily Vrek’s been keeping his distance, and aside from a very uncomfortable and awkward train ride, hasn’t made his presence known again.

Whether or not Vrek actually shows himself is inconsequential though, since Lance knows he’ll always be around under Keith’s orders. That makes it difficult for Lance to do any sleuthing like he planned to, cause while Keith may not want him to help, that doesn’t mean Lance won’t try his absolute best to do the exact opposite of what Keith wants of him.

He just doesn’t know where to start.

Keith had a point, unfortunately. What _could_ Lance do? Track down the killer? Find the secret lair where all the vampires are being experimented on? With what resources? He can’t exactly contact the police without looking crazy and suspicious himself. And he can’t talk to Hunk and Pidge, who are usually there for Lance to bounce ideas off of.

Lance flops horizontal onto the theater floor with a huff, accepting the second cookie Pidge shoves into his mouth followed by a gentle pat on his head. They and Hunk always seem to have the cure for Lance’s troubles, and Lance wishes he could discuss the truth with them.

 _Cure._ That word snags onto a memory, just as Pidge chatters in the background, “Guess what? Matt set his closet on fire yesterday.”

 _Matt._ Hadn’t Pidge mentioned weeks ago that their brother asked them about reverse engineering a virus? And hadn’t Keith told him last night that a virus was what was causing the vampires to attack random civilians? Matt’s dating Keith’s older brother, and it sounds like he’s working on an antidote of some sort, which could only mean…

“Pidge, you’re a genius!”

“Obviously. But what did I do?”

Lance scrolls through his contact list and shoots Matt a text, asking if they could video chat later tonight without Pidge knowing. Matt wouldn’t bat an eyelash at that kind of message, since they used to plan surprise parties and pranks on Pidge all the time. He receives a reply about an hour later, a GIF of Shia Labeouf yelling “JUST DO IT” on the screen. Typical Matt response.

Lance keeps himself busy for the rest of the day; he even tries to chat up Vrek on the train ride home, a fruitless effort. Past dinner time, he locks his room and makes sure everyone in the house knows that he’s studying for a test tomorrow, before opening up the video chat app and waiting for Matt to call.

“Hey Lance! What’s up?”

Matt’s voice crackles with enthusiasm through the headphones, Lance wincing as he lowers the volume. The video itself is lagging a few seconds, cutting in and out as it tries to catch up, pausing at unflattering shots of Matt’s face. His hair’s grown shaggy, and he’s no longer wearing glasses since he got Lasik surgery. There’s also a cut across his cheek, a battle scar from when the donut-making machines in MIT’s AI department led a revolt.

Lance is about to greet back when he notices the moving lump on top Matt’s head, sprig of lettuce bobbing from its mouth.

“Oh, don’t mind the gerbil,” Matt says, waving his hand. “We’re testing some out in zero-gravity. I named this one Boba Fettucine, after my two favorite food groups.”

Seems like Pidge wasn’t joking when they said Matt’s been living off of boba tea and microwavable pasta. Lance shakes his head with a huffed laugh, his anxiety easing with Matt’s carefree demeanor.

“I heard you set your clothes on fire yesterday, so I’m fearing for Boba’s well-being.”

“Awww, does little Pidget give you the play by play of my daily life? They really do miss me.”

The two of them chat some more, casual topics like school and the latest trending meme. Matt breaks himself off whenever he’s about to launch into a tangent about physics, scratching his nose sheepishly and jostling the gerbil now sleeping on his head.

“So what did you want to talk about?” he presses when the small talk peters out. He gently shifts the gerbil and tucks it into his arms, rocking it like a baby. Lance focuses on the rhythm of the movement to soothe his spike in nervousness, wondering how best he should open up the issue he wants to address. He hadn’t really thought this far yet.

After a pause, he decides: “I know about your boyfriend, Matt.”

“Takashi?” Matt raises a brow, and there’s a dopey, affectionate smile that pulls at his lips. “Oh yeah, I bet Pidge told you all about him. They really grilled him when they met each other, Lance! Think they scarred him for life.”

“No, Matt.” Lance takes a breath. “I mean I _know_.”

There’s a significant pause in-between, until understanding gradually dawns on Matt’s face, replacing his smile with an unusual solemness. He tilts his head to check his surroundings, before leaning in and whispering:

“You know that Takashi’s Edward Cullen?”

Lance refrains an eye roll. “You don’t need to make pop cultural references, Matt. You can say he’s a vampire.”

Matt scratches his nose again, expression bashful. “How did you find out?”

“I’m friends with his brother, Keith,” Lance explains, ignoring how the word ‘friend’ doesn’t feel quite right in his mouth. “He goes to our school. I found out through him.”

“Keith told you?” There’s a flicker in Matt’s eyes that Lance doesn’t catch when he nods. “How much? Does Pidge know?”

“No, Pidge doesn’t,” Lance reassures him, then details what he’s been told: about the vampires living among them, about the attacks that are connected. Matt follows along with murmurs of affirmation, laughing quietly when he hears about Keith’s refusal to let Lance help.

“Takashi told me to stay out of it too,” he says while putting Boba Fettucine back into its cage, “but obviously the boyfriend and scientist in me wouldn’t settle for that.”

Lance scoots closer, eager to find out what Matt’s been doing to get around Keith’s brother’s objections. “Pidge mentioned you were looking into viruses. Are you trying to find a cure?”

“Yeah, I’m teaching myself virology right now, so that I can figure out how to make an antidote for whatever’s causing the vampires to go, you know, batshit.” The sound of a drawer unlocks as Matt reaches down, pulling out a nondescript file. He flips through until he reaches a specific page, turning it around to show Lance its contents.

“The virus seems blood-based,” he continues, “and it needs to be injected intravenously in order for it to take effect, so at least we know it’s not airborne or waterborne.” Another page is flipped, this time showing symbols Lance has never seen before. “There are aspects of the virus though that don’t appear to be in any form of human science, which is why I wanted to talk to Pidge and a few of my other professors for more insight.”

Matt shuts the file, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that Lance recognizes, the look he gets whenever he’s on the cusp of a scientific breakthrough. “Vampires may have lived for longer, but that doesn’t make them smarter than us. I’m sure that if I could just talk to one of their scientists and somehow get Pidge onboard, the process of finding the antidote would go a lot faster.”

“I wanna help!” Lance exclaims, buoyed by the promising news. “But I don’t know how useful I’d be in the lab, so I was wondering if I should try digging up clues on who the perp is, and get them to give up their master plan along with the virus.”

Matt’s brows crease in concern. “I don’t think that’s a viable plan, Lance. Keith does have a point.” The dejected look on Lance’s face must be bad enough that Matt holds his hand up. “Wait, hear me out. It’s definitely not right to put yourself in danger, _especially_ going after the perp yourself. What I’m doing is research based, so it’s a low risk job. But if you go after whoever’s behind all this and really do get hurt, think about how Keith would feel.”

Despite how much he wants to protest, Lance clips his mouth shut, remembering the way Keith had begged him to stay safe, holding him so close and tight. “I just don’t want to be useless,” he mumbles, looking down at his feet. That sense of helplessness pierces him. 

“You’re not useless,” Matt assures him. “You can still be there for Keith, which is what I’m sure he needs the most right now. A friend to lean on.” 

 _I wish I could be more for him though_ , Lance thinks, but he keeps it inside. He relents for the time being, nodding his head. “Okay… Okay. Thanks Matt.”

“Of course. I’ll keep you updated, if that helps?”

Lance smiles, genuine. “I’d love that.”

They talk for a few minutes more, until they both have to turn in for the night. As Matt’s logging off, Lance gets a thought, one that quickly latches onto his mind and won’t let go. It makes his heart kick unevenly and his palms sweat, but his mouth starts forming the words before his brain can catch up.

“Hey, Matt, can I ask you something else?”

“Hm? Yeah, go for it.”

“Does…” Lance swallows, rubbing his hands up and down his calves, staring determinedly at the space between Matt’s eyebrows. “Does your boyfriend drink your blood?”

When Matt flushes cherry red, Lance takes that as a yes. “What’s it like?”

Matt looks like he’s about to overheat, sweat dotting his forehead in real time. Lance waits for him to answer with bated breath, watching as he fumbles around for a reponse, laughing nervously and flapping his hands.

After a solid minute, he finally says:

“…You really want to hear about my sex life, Lance?”

That was _not_ the answer Lance was expecting.

“What— No! Ew, gross, _bye_!”

Lance slams his laptop shut and practically throws it against the wall, flailing out of his chair and diving into his bed. He muffles a yell into his pillow, disbelieving of what he just heard.

_A vampire drinking your blood means having sex? Why? Isn’t it just for food?!_

Lance rolls around until his blood stops pounding inside his head, heart rate slowing to a steady but still frantic beat, mind a confused, overwhelmed mess.

_Does that mean Keith… would want to…_

Lance smacks his blush-hot cheeks with both palms, shaking his head. _No._ No way. Keith had said his blood didn’t even smell good, which means he couldn’t be interested. He doesn’t like Lance like that!

And yet.

As Lance presses his fingers to his lips, chasing the pressure, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like.

 

☼

 

Lance counts the seconds in threes, waiting for the train to arrive. 

Threes because he’s trying to stay awake, his sleep worsening with the return of his nightmares each night. Threes because that’s how many times he’s attempted to talk to Vrek this morning, all with no success. Threes because that’s how many days Keith’s been gone, and Lance wonders when he’s started counting so much, waiting for Keith to come back. 

“Lance! Good morning!” someone calls, a friendly, familiar voice. Lance lifts his head up to see Plaxum waving at him. 

“Oh hey. Morning, Plax. I don’t usually see you on the subway?” Lance stands straighter and smiles at the blue-haired girl, someone he had a crush on for a day in freshman year. They haven’t ran into each other in a while, since she mostly hangs out with the varsity swim team, but they’re good enough acquaintances that they can always chat without it being awkward. 

“My car broke down, so I’m stuck taking public transportation for the next week,” Plaxum whines, making Lance laugh. 

“It’s not so bad. I do it basically every day, unless my friends give me a ride.”

“And which do you prefer?”

“The ride.”

Plaxum raises her arms. “See!” 

They break into a fit of laughter together, and talk until Plaxum sees someone else she knows, dashing to the other end of the station with a promise to hang out with Lance someday. Lance waves her off, eyes trailing back to the screen announcing the train arrival times. The orange LED lights are still stuck at 4 minutes, which seems strange since he could’ve sworn it was 4 minutes ages ago. 

Shouldn’t the time have changed by now? 

Just as Lance tugs the sleeve of his sweater to check his watch, someone bumps into him, knocking him over. He stumbles onto his knees, one hand slapping against the concrete to break his fall. The sting of asphalt hurts, but his forearm burns even more. When he looks down, he sees that the sleeve of his sweater’s been ripped open, blood dripping from the fresh cut. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the person who bumped into him frets from somewhere above. Lance looks up to see an old woman, wrapped in a thick, black coat, bending down whilst taking a handkerchief out from her pocket. Somehow, she looks familiar. 

Silver hair bleeds from her hood, shrouding most of her features. The point of her nose is torn like a knife’s edge, matching the ends of her fingernails that twist into the handkerchief above Lance’s arm. When she wipes away the blood, she presses down hard, so much so that Lance cries out in pain. 

“You ought to be more aware of yourself, young man,” the old woman says. She lifts the ruined handkerchief to her lips, tongue darting out, purple and long. Cold horror sluices down Lance’s spine as she licks his blood off the fabric, smile stretching rictus-wide. 

“Your taste is a special one.” 

Before Lance can react, someone’s scream pierces the sleepy quiet of the station, chilling him to the bone. The sound cuts short— turns wet and guttural, and Lance turns around just in time to see a creature latched onto Plaxum’s throat, tearing her flesh in two. 

The creature drops her body to the floor, draining the blood that pools from her neck, clawed hand smothering her lifeless face. 

_You should be scared of my kind_ , Keith had said. His voice echoes inside Lance’s head as everyone in the station starts running, a cacophony of screams and footsteps. More creatures stream from the subway tracks — pale, dark, and monstrous — snatching people left and right, slamming them to the ground. 

“Run!” someone shouts at him as they sprint past. Lance jolts back into his body, adrenaline crashing into his veins, forcing him to move. 

“Master Mendéz, we need to go.” 

Vrek is suddenly by his side, gripping his arm. From beneath his trench coat, he pulls out a blade, long and thin and wicked sharp. His thumb rests against the hilt as he positions himself in front of Lance, backing them up toward the exit. 

The air is heavy with the iron scent of blood. Lance can’t breathe, can’t see anything beyond Vrek’s solid back, pushing him away. All he can hear are the screams, the wails and crack of bones. 

“No— Wait,” he chokes, trying to break from Vrek’s hold. “We have to help those people!” 

“They cannot be helped, Master Mendéz. It is not your concern.” 

Lance thrusts his elbow into Vrek’s spine, the force of which takes the vampire by surprise. His grip around Lance’s arm loosens, and Lance takes the opening to jump in front, prepared to run back in order to save anyone within his reach. 

He’s one step across when the air bursts around him, figures bolting past, clashing into the fray. In the blur of motion, Lance sees Keith, red eyes scorching as his sword drives into the chest of one of the ashen beasts, ripping it in half. Black blood splatters across his face, but he doesn’t pause for breath as he whirls to face another one, its jaws snapping wide as his blade slashes across its throat. 

One by one, the creatures are cut down, though not without a fight. Lance watches in terrified awe as Keith and his members grapple against them, blades tearing through flesh, fists fracturing ribs and skulls. Beside Keith, a man with silver hair cleaves the head clean off a beast with darker skin, blood-red ligature lines pulsing from its limbs. The man then fixes his bloody sword in front of him as he strides toward the largest of the creatures at the center of the fight, charging forward with a cry riddled in anguish. 

The creature roars when it catches sight of the man, arm sweeping out and bashing into his side, sending him flying through the air. His body crumples against the wall. 

“ _Zethrid, stop!_ ” 

At the sound of Keith’s voice, the creature pauses, large ears twitching above its head. Lance can’t take his eyes off Keith as he steps closer, hands help up, weaponless. 

_Don’t, please don’t._

“Zethrid, you can fight this. We’ll get you help. We—”

But ‘Zethrid’ blitzes forward, slamming into Keith who buckles as he takes the blow. Lance’s reaction is immediate, sprinting as fast as he could to get to Keith. He doesn’t make it far as arms wrap around his torso, Vrek locking him down, his strength unbreakable even as Lance struggles with all his might. 

In the periphery of his vision, on the other side of the station, someone is standing on the ledge, shouldering a crossbow. A stake is pulled taut in the weapon’s frame, aimed toward where Keith and Zethrid are grappling each other, too close, _too close— don’t—_

Lance feels  the echo of a scream — jagged in his ears and rough in his throat —  as the stake hurtles through the air and hits its mark. 

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna follow for writing updates and other projects I'm working on, feel free to follow me @ephemelody on twitter or tumblr. 
> 
> Hope you guys stick around for the next chapter! ^^


	10. knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friend Carlena for the name suggestion in this chapter. And as always, thank you to everyone who left me a comment!! Work has been exhausting, and I'm also working on a personal project that's incredibly important to me, so it's been a juggle of time and energy for everything. All of you make it worth it, though. 
> 
> Happy reading!

When Mom’s coffin had been lowered into the ground, Keith didn’t cry.

He didn’t cry when they found Dad’s body. He didn’t cry when they buried him too, beside her, upheaving the earth like an open wound. 

Now in the gray dawn, icy rain drizzling from the clouds above, he doesn’t cry as they bury Regris and Alana in the same cemetery, four graves down on the old Marmora estate. Antok and Thace are buried as well, along with Zethrid who has no home to be bound to. 

“ _Narja un taeud iil’ mon hayth_ ,” Ulaz speaks, in the old vampire tongue. _May you return to the earth whence you came_. 

Keith stares, unseeing, as the dirt is piled over each grave, the finality of the act sinking in. Beside him, Shiro rests his hand on his shoulder, grip shaking. Keith holds it with his own, feeling the metal burn beneath his gloves, the prosthetic siphoning the residual magic left in the ligatures around Shiro’s old cut. 

The phantom pain flares, along with his anger. 

“Sendak will receive his punishment a hundredfold,” Shiro says, “and even then it will not be enough.” 

Keith nods silently as they turn from the covered crypts, the funeral coming to an end. Their escorts follow, umbrellas raised above their heads, but Keith dismisses them, walking deeper into the cemetery where other Marmoran members rest. 

Near the edge of the forest, Lotor is still standing over Zethrid’s burial plot, Acxa beside him. Farther away, Ezor is inconsolable, held carefully within Narti’s arms. Keith walks over to offer a comforting hand against her back, supporting the two of them as Shiro stands next to Lotor. 

“Thank you for letting her to rest here,” Lotor says, quiet. 

The proud line of his back is gone, replaced by a bone wary tiredness. Keith hasn’t seen him like this since they were young — after his mother died, then when his father went mad. 

“I found Zethrid in Kazakhstan. She’d been trapped by humans, beaten and starved within an inch of her life.” He turns away from the grave, face half in shadow. “I promised her a new start.” 

“She had one, because of you,” Shiro reassures him. “Don’t blame yourself.” 

Lotor clenches his hands, fists shaking. It takes time before he speaks again. 

“How will Sendak be punished for his crimes?” 

Sendak, who they had found in an abandoned segment of the subway system shrouded in lingering Witch magic. Sendak, who was caught with over thirty missing and unknown vampires in the lair, all affected by the virus. 

“It won’t be a merciful death,” Keith promises.

He can’t stop the splice of memories inside his head, the sound of Zethrid’s scream when Sendak had pierced her neck with a needle, the virus taking over instantaneously. In the cages of the diseased vampires, the dismembered bodies of human civilians had been crowded on top of each other, their blood clotted and pungent in the sour air. When the cages were opened, they tore through the corpses, mad with the hunt for fresh blood. 

In the chaos, Sendak had nearly escaped, but the Blades managed to capture him before chasing after the escaped vampires headed to the upper decks of the subway. 

When Keith had felt Lance’s presence through the connection, the fear that flooded through him was unlike anything he had ever known. 

“Vrek, tell Ulaz I’m on my way. And make sure Ilun is still at her post.”

“ _I think Ilun quite likes her post, Master Keith,_ ” Vrek speaks through the phone. “ _I’ve never seen her as happy as she is watching over Master Mendéz._ ” 

Keith tries to imagine Ilun happy, the emotion so far removed her constant stoic nature it’s almost impossible. But then he thinks of Lance’s smile, and it doesn’t seem so unlikely that Ilun would feel a fraction of the happiness Keith does himself when he’s with Lance. 

“ _Councilor Ulaz and Commander Kolivan will be expecting you, along with Councilor Trigel and her select attendants.”_

Keith shuts his phone and walks back to Narti and Ezor, uttering a soft goodbye before gesturing for his escorts to take Shiro back to the hospital so that he can get his arm checked. 

“Will you be all right on your own?” 

Shiro’s face is placid, but Keith can tell how much pain he’s in from the slight tremble of his fingers. 

“I can handle him.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” 

Keith shoves him gently, lightly, offering an easy smile. “Go get yourself checked out, Shiro. I’ll let you know how it goes.” 

The Eastern Coven is below Grand Central Station today, the rumble of trains and feet echoing from high above. At the center of the obsidian stage, Sendak is chained to the floor underneath a cage, arms bound behind him as he kneels. A stake is driven into his skin, just shy of piercing his heart. It renders him immobile, and no doubt in immense pain. His breaths are ragged as he tries to speak, his skin stretched tortuously around his mouth, the entire right side of his face burned to the bone by Witch fire. Only one eye remains. 

After the majority of Zarkon’s faction had been destroyed, Sendak was among the ones who disappeared from trace. He had been heavily injured, and presumed dead after decades of no appearance. 

A fatal mistake, they now know, on multiple accounts. 

“Why? It’s simple,” Sendak says, his voice taunting as he answers Ulaz’s interrogation. “Zarkon was my Master. I must honor him by finishing off his life’s work.” 

“Zarkon was seeking true immortality and driven mad in the process.” Ulaz wheels himself forward, grip knuckle white. “What you’re doing is beyond me.”

“Not surprising for a man clinging to his dying breath.” 

“And yet, you’ll still die before him, Sendak.”

Sendak scowls as Keith strides forward, shrugging off his suit jacket. He tosses it to the side before loosening his tie, keeping his gloves on. He’ll need them in a moment. 

“Ah.” Sendak’s lone eye darkens. “If it isn’t the Marmora brat.” 

A part of Keith is pleased with himself, for inflicting that damage on Sendak’s face when he was young. He deserves far worse. 

“Master Marmora, he’s been uncooperative, as expected.” Councilor Trigel walks forward, too, part of her team stationed around the Coven, no doubt taking notes of any information given, willing or coerced. “We have yet to discover the antidote.” 

“You’ll have to keep dreaming, Councilor.” Sendak sits back on his haunches, grunting against the pain. “I won’t be revealing any clues. For someone with your intellect though, this must be embarrassing that you can’t figure it out.” 

Councilor Trigel bristles, hands fisting into her robes. Keith walks the remaining few steps toward the cage, signaling for it to be opened. One of the vampire hunters appears from the darkness of the Coven, releasing the barrier. As soon as it’s gone, Kolivan and Vrek flank Keith’s side, along with two other Blades. 

The whole room is tense, poised on a knife’s edge waiting to be sliced. Keith pushes the boundaries, standing close enough for Sendak to lunge if he so wanted. 

“What did you want to achieve, Sendak?”

“Like I said, it was to continue my Master’s work.” The drawl of Sendak’s answer could almost be considered bored, if it weren’t for the thick coating of blood in his throat. With the stake inside him, he can’t repair himself from any injuries. Can’t stop any of his internal bleeding. 

“That’s unconvincing when there were rumors of a coup fronted by you before Zarkon’s demise.” 

“Rumors, Little Marmora. I loved my Master. He was on the brink of unimaginable greatness.” 

“And you must’ve hoped to take that for yourself.” 

Sendak sneers, his silence speaking for him. 

“Was this simply revenge, then?” Keith presses on. “For what happened to you when Zarkon lost.” 

The bark of Sendak’s laugh is sharp and acerbic. “What, for my face? Don’t think so shallow of me, Little Marmora.” He spits at Keith’s feet. “You’re the son of a filthy half-breed, just as weak as your father. I wouldn’t waste my time on you.” 

Rolling his head up, the leer of his mouth rekindles the anger Keith had kept so carefully under control, his words igniting a hatred that never died. 

“Now, your dear mother. _That_ was a woman. Where was your father when she died, huh? I was there. You want to hear about the way she begged in her last moments? Begged her brother to spare your life? 

Keith smashes his boot into the bare bone of Sendak’s jaw, Sendak’s spine nearly bending in half from the force of it. Still, Sendak laughs, higher and higher even as Keith grips the stake buried inside his chest and twists him forward. 

“Master Keith,” comes Kolivan’s warning from behind him. 

Through the glove, the Morsya wood burns, a searing heat that Keith can’t even imagine on his bare skin. Once through the heart, the stake would consume it instantly, turning it to ash. If it weren’t for the layer of protection, Keith’s hand would be like Shiro’s arm now. Gone. 

As the stake drives deeper, Sendak howling in pain, Keith thinks of all the people he’s killed — all the human civilians and all of Keith’s comrades. Zethrid, Thace, and Antok. Alana and Regris. All gone. 

He thinks of Lance. 

“Master Keith, stop.” 

Kolivan hauls him back. Keith lets go of the stake but doesn’t back away, grief and fear scouring his objectivity, laying bare his desperation. 

He can’t lose any more of the people important to him. He can’t. 

“Tell me, Sendak, what was your goal in doing this?! What other secrets are you keeping?” 

Heaving for breath, Sendak’s lone eye glows blue. He must be delirious from the pain right now, and yet still, Sendak finds the cruelty to lean in and whisper into Keith’s ear.

“And what about your secret, Little Marmora? That sweet, pretty thing your bodyguard was protecting?” His mouth rips wide as Keith pulls back in shock, blood-soaked tongue swiping across his fangs. “Mmm, how I would love to have a taste of him.” 

Keith feels his blood run cold, then flare into white-hot rage. Sendak laughs viciously at his reaction, before whatever was left in his stomach retches out of him. His eyes roll to the back of his head, and his body starts seizing. 

He won’t last much longer with the stake inside him. 

Keith stands up and turns away. “Get him out of my sight.” 

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Kolivan agrees. It doesn’t seem he or anyone else heard what Sendak whispered. 

“We will find the antidote,” Councilor Trigel promises, “in the event that any further attacks occur past his execution. Who knows what else he’s hiding.” 

The hunters and huntresses positioned around the upper strata of the Coven stride down to reconstruct the cage. The graphene molds around Sendak’s senseless form, electricity crackling along its structure. When one of the huntresses steps into the light, Vrek intakes a sharp breath. 

“Councilor Ulaz, a word?” Ulaz nods his permission. “I take issue with this huntress.” Vrek gestures toward her. “She nearly killed Master Marmora.” 

The huntress scoffs, folding her arms with a cock of her hip. “I didn’t miss, did I?” 

Keith remembers the moment the stake bore through Zethrid’s chest, the tip nearly grazing his nose. A dead center shot to her heart. 

No, the huntress hadn’t missed at all. 

“Miss Nyma, thank you for protecting our young Master,” Ulaz begins, ever the diplomat. “But I must agree with Vrek that the shot you took during the battle was an unwise and perilous decision.” 

“Then feel free to no longer employ my services.” 

In the light, Keith’s eyes widen a fraction when it finally dawns on him who she is. He recognizes her now, the girl standing next to Allura, kissing the crown of her head. 

“It’s all right, she didn’t miss,” Keith finds himself vouching for her. The huntress’s sharp eyes flit toward him, narrowing ever slightly. “Her shot sealed the outcome of the mission. I take no issue with that.”

Ulaz judges him carefully, but he seems satisfied with that answer, nodding his head in assent before renegotiating with the huntress. 

When the meeting is over, and Sendak is lowered into the depths of the Coven to await his next interrogation, Keith walks over to her, making sure no one else still left around was paying attention. 

“I’d like to speak with you alone,” he says, grabbing her arm. She tugs it away from him, but doesn’t say a word as they walk out of the room, bending into a secluded nook of the underground passage. 

“So, you finally realized? Took you long enough.” The huntress crosses her arms, leaning against the wall, but Keith can tell that she is anything but relaxed. _Nyma_ , one of the snowflakes if he remembers correctly. A delicate role that doesn’t suit her at all. 

“Are you here on Allura’s behalf?” he asks, cutting right to the chase. 

“No, she still doesn’t know you’re here. I’ve made sure of that.” 

“Why, to protect her?” The sardonic tone to his comment is undisguised. Nyma’s eyes harden into diamonds. 

“She lost everything because of you,” she says, cold and so full of resentment that— 

_Ah, if only you knew._

Keith smiles, defeated. 

“So did I.” 

 

.

.

.

 

He didn’t always hate dinner parties. 

They were the rare occasions Mom actually had time for him after all, when she didn’t have to be away leading faction meetings or building the business empire. For the whole night, she would tease and fret over him, helping him get dressed and combing through his hair, standing by his side to make sure he didn’t start any trouble. 

He would start trouble anyway, of course, just so Mom could nag him more. 

“Now I know why all your retainers call you a troublemaker.” Mom pinches his nose, smiling affectionately. “You’re such a handful.” 

Keith sticks his tongue out at her. “Stop ruining my image, Mom. I have a reputation.” 

“Oh, you have a reputation? Of what, being my adorable son?” 

Her laugh is clear and radiant as Keith grumbles, the whole room instantly brighter with its sound. Even in the Palace of Versailles, with all its glittering chandeliers and gold statuaries, Mom shines the most. 

All around them, the highest ranking members of the vampire society are gathered, along with their allies. Keith sees his dad near the center of the ballroom, surrounded by a group of dignitaries. Those who don’t know of his ancestry vie for his attention, while those who are aware of the human blood that runs through his family whisper in the background, questioning how a man of mixed blood could marry into one of the most powerful factions in the vampire world. 

Keith thinks they’re all stupid, and if he didn’t know Shiro was also keeping an eye on him from somewhere in the room, he would’ve stomped up to one of those old geezers and shoved his foot up their pretentious, purist asses. 

A couple engages Mom in conversation — a woman leading one of the younger factions, her husband holding onto her arm. They’re in love, judging by their mannerisms and their matching rings, but for some reason they feel different to Keith. He watches them, shifting his gaze from Mom then back to Dad, trying to make sense of the difference. 

When the couple leaves, he tugs on Mom’s suit, the indigo fabric liquid smooth at his fingertips. 

“Mom, you and Dad aren’t like the others,” he says. Mom looks at him curiously, before understanding dawns on her expression. She kneels down, her smile a soft secret only for him. 

“How so, my love?” 

Keith scrunches his mouth, searching for the right words to express himself. “It’s like… you guys are connected by a string, but for some reason no one else can see it.” 

Mom presses her hand against his cheek. In the warm light, she is the most beautiful person in the world. 

“I’ll tell you a secret, Keith. Your father and I are blood-bonded. Have you heard about that before?” Keith shakes his head, but the words resonate inside him. _Blood-bonded._ It sounds important. Cherished. 

“It means we’ve tied our lives together, like a red string, one that can never be broken. The reason you can see it Keith is because you’re our son. Takashi can, too. We share the same blood.” 

“Why are you blood-bonded, Mom?” 

Mom shifts her gaze toward Dad. When their eyes meet through the crowd, an ineffable softness touches her, one that Dad returns. “Because I love your father with all my heart,” she says, almost as if they’re speaking to each other. “I knew from the first time I saw him.” 

When her smile returns to Keith, it’s brimming with a light he has yet to understand.

“Not as much as I love you, of course.”

“Gross, Mom,” Keith mumbles, even as his chest warms, knowing his parents love each other so wholly. Feeling lucky to be sheltered in that love. 

“Don’t ‘gross, mom’ me, young man." 

“Disgusting _,_ mom.”

“Oh, you little— come here!”

Keith is laughing in Mom’s headlock when Dad walks back to them, Sir Alfor and his family following behind. 

“Krolia, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Alfor greets warmly, as Mom releases Keith from the headlock and straightens her suit jacket, pretending to be prim and proper again. Dad tucks her to to his side, kissing her temple with a laugh at her antics. 

“Giving your mother trouble again, Keith?” he asks, ruffling Keith’s head fondly. Keith pretends to scowl. 

“Isn’t it Mom that’s always giving _me_ trouble?” 

“Hey.” Mom shoots him an amused glare, before smiling apologetically at Alfor and his wife, Alise. “I’m so glad you could come, sorry you have to catch us like this every time. Allura, you’ve grown so much!” 

Allura curtsies in thanks, looking like the princess she is in her shell pink dress, hair pulled up in an elegant knot. There are new piercings in her ears, a constellation looped through the skin. Keith wants one for himself, maybe even a lip piercing, but Mom might kill him. 

Shiro suddenly appears, cheeks tinted red. “You look beautiful,” he tells Allura, and now Allura’s red, too. Keith stares at the two of them vacantly, wishing Shiro would just ask her out already. 

The adults talk while the three of them run off. Keith’s the youngest between them, though he’s still not sure how Fae ages work.  Allura and her people possess even longer lifespans than vampires, but they’re more fragile and easily destroyed. Any severe human disease could kill them, despite the protection of their Fae magic. It seems that the Alteans are on the verge of discovering a new form of cure, though, something that Allura calls ‘antibiotics’ in her posh accent.

“Isn’t that Lotor?” she asks as they sit on the rail of the upper balcony of the ballroom, pointing to a head of white in the crowd. The person below seems to sense them watching, and he looks up, waving his hand.

It is Lotor, but something’s not right. Without much thinking, Keith jumps off the balcony, Shiro’s voice shouting after him. The guests around Keith gasp as he lands, parting as he makes his way to his cousin.

“Hey, what happened?” 

The bruise on Lotor’s cheek is turning green, spanning nearly half his face. There’s no point in hiding it, though it seems he tried. The hem of his shirt sleeves are short, too, revealing the bandages wrapped around his arms.

“Father’s been acting strange,” Lotor says, sounding small and weak. So unlike the cousin Keith used to spar with. “He wasn’t planning to come today, but I had to get out of the house.”

Brought by the commotion, Mom strides over, pulling the two of them to the side away from everyone’s view.

“Oh, Lotor,” she murmurs as she kneels down to tenderly touch his swollen face. She strokes the crown of his head. “Stay at our place from now on, okay? I’ll talk to that brother of mine.”

Alfor is here now, too, brows creased with concern. “He hasn’t been the same since Honerva’s health worsened. I’ll go with you to speak with him.”

“I don’t think Mother has much time left,” Lotor whispers, staring at the ground.

And, despite all the time afforded to them — _all the time we should’ve had_ — none of them could’ve known just how little time was left.

 

.

.

.

 

For the first time in years, Keith dreams of the last day.

When Mom had been called to her brother’s place.

When Zarkon had arrived at their house, holding Mom’s severed head.

It’s always a blur from there. The stench of blood and burnt flesh. The taste of salt, tears burning down his cheeks and throat. Keith feels the impact of Shiro’s hand as he shoves him to the back of their living room, right as Zarkon and his faction charge for them.

Alfor had been there too, with his wife and Allura. Keith won’t ever forget her screams when Zarkon cut her father down with a blade and stabbed her mother through the chest. Keith won’t ever forget the magic that surged from her in the aftermath, the raw power wiping out half of Zarkon’s men before it consumed her too, burning her to near death.

 _Dad, come back,_ Keith remembers thinking, praying, as Sendak had lunged for him. But in his heart, he already knew. That just like Mom, Dad would never be coming home again.

He had shattered a lantern of Witch fire on Sendak’s head. He had watched as the flames spread through the house he grew up in, helpless as Zarkon fought against his brother, as Zarkon pulled out a stake and drove it through Shiro’s arm.

He wakes up without seeing the end, and calls his brother just to make sure, just to hear:

_Yes, Keith, I’m still here._

 

.

.

.

 

The story goes that Zarkon had gone mad one night and wiped out nearly a dozen factions in a senseless act of violence. The story goes that Takashi Shirogane, step-son of Lady Krolia and a mere half-breed, had triumphed over Zarkon with ease, driving a stake through his heart.

What the story leaves out is that Zarkon was once an uncle that Keith grew up on the shoulders of. A loving brother to Krolia. A childhood friend of Alfor’s.

What the story leaves out is that he beat his son Lotor everyday for decades, believing that his birth was what caused his beloved wife Honerva to fall ill in the first place.

What the story leaves out is that Zarkon had gone mad because of her death, and that because of that love, he recklessly searched for a way to bring her back, delving into the forbidden parts of magic, and allowed the darkness to consume him.

 

.

.

.

 

In retrospect, sending everyone away and leaving himself alone with the baby was probably a bad idea.

Keith stares at his goddaughter, unsure of what to do.

Maria. That’s what Regris and Alana had talked about naming her before they passed. _Maria, remember? Where we fell in love._ She’s beautiful, just like her mother, with a head of black curls and light brown skin. Amber eyes like her father, dappled in green, containing powers that have yet to manifest.

She blinks up at Keith from her crib, mouth tugging on the ear of a stuffed hippo Shiro had dug up from their storage. Piled around her are other toys bought by the Marmora members, but Maria seems to have taken a liking to Keith’s item from his childhood, fingers curling reflexively over its snout. 

For now, she’s quiet, having been fed on a fresh bottle of blood from the nurse. Her fangs have yet to come in, Keith notices, gums pink and harmless as she babbles. She kicks her feet vigorously when Keith reaches in, smoothing the fine hairs on her head, trying to recall whether or not all babies are this small. This fragile looking.

Suddenly, she scrunches her nose, brows creasing unhappily. When she starts crying, Keith panics.

“What, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She was fine literally a second ago. Did he press down on her head too hard? Is she hurt somewhere? A stomach ache? Cancer?! 

A dozen incoherent thoughts runs through his head before the smell hits.

Thirty minutes later, Lance is outside his door, looking adorably wind-swept and ruffled, as if he had rushed over as soon as he got Keith’s call.

“You sounded terrified over the phone. What’s wrong?”

“How do I change a diaper?”

“How do you— what?”

Lance follows him into the makeshift nursery where the study used to be, Maria still wailing loudly. When Lance sees her, he gasps softly, leaning over the crib with a look of wonder.

“Hey peanut, hey.” He reaches in to brush a fat tear from Maria’s cheek with the crook of his finger, murmuring soothingly all the while. Miraculously, Maria quiets, wails petering out to snot-filled sniffles, her round eyes staring up at Lance curiously. “Maria, I’m Lance. I’m here to help your god-daddy change your diaper.”

Keith chokes on air. “God-daddy?”

Lance ignores him, already besotted by the baby babbling up at him, no doubt telling him how useless of a ‘god-daddy’ Keith is.

“You didn’t tell me vampires poop.”

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated, but he has trouble keeping the smile off his face. “Lance, please just show me how to change her diaper.”

Lance winks at him, before directing him to fetch a clean towel and a fresh cloth diaper.

Soon, the old diaper is in the washer, and Maria is kicking her feet happily as Keith gently cleans her bottom and tucks the new diaper around her, Lance guiding him through the whole time.

“And now you know, god-daddy. Use your new skills wisely.”

“Please stop saying ‘god-daddy.’”

They’re both having trouble holding back their smiles, and when Lance breaks down into a fit of laughter, Keith does too, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.

Lance reaches back into the crib to brush Maria’s temple and ear; he looks absolutely enamored with her, already adopting her as his own. “Will she bite?”

“No, her fangs haven’t come in yet. She’s been fed today, too.”

Lance scoops Maria up gently, humming a sweet melody as he rocks her. Maria giggles when he leans down to rub the tip of his nose against hers, cheeks crinkling and eyes squinting in delight.

Keith thinks his heart might beat out of his chest.

“We’re going to take good care of you, Mari,” Lance promises, soft and sure. “We won’t let your Mom and Dad down. They’re definitely watching over you right now.”

The hollow of Keith’s chest constricts, burgeoning with warmth. Without thinking, he gravitates toward them, pulled into the orbit of their sunlight. His hands settle around Lance’s waist, and he hears the faint hitch in Lance’s breath, Maria’s curious babble as she blinks at the two of them, nestled safely between their arms.

“You’re— you’re really good with kids,” Keith finds himself saying, awkward but sincere. A part of him is hoping to distract Lance from the closeness. Hoping Lance will let him stay. He’s been pushing the boundaries so much lately, he’s afraid one day he’ll push too much.

Yet he craves Lance desperately, more than ever.

“I have two younger siblings and several distantly related nieces and nephews.” Lance grins, confident. “I think I know my way around them.”

He doesn’t move away, and instead leans in more. Keith keeps forgetting to breathe.

Outside, the sun is setting. Light spills through in spoonfuls, melting with the honey of Lance’s singing voice, dripping onto the blue cotton of his sweater, soft beneath Keith’s calluses, soft like the space they’ve sheltered in this moment. He wants to sink into it, submerge himself for a breath and forget everything that’s happened.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and Lance knows the meaning.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m tough.”

“You lost a friend.”

The stroke of the Lance’s finger slows against Maria’s cheek. The funeral for the girl on the swim team had been yesterday, the whole school gathered for it. Lance’s tears had been silent, but Keith had felt them nonetheless, painful and bruised, bringing tears to his own eyes.

When Lance’s eyes look up to hold his now, however, Keith can’t read them. Can’t understand the emotion that floods from the human boy, almost overwhelming in its fierceness.

“You lost three of your family members. I should be asking if you’re okay, too.”

 _Don’t worry about me, think of yourself._ “Vrek told me you tried to run to me.” Keith can’t even begin to stomach the idea of what could’ve happened had Lance actually reached him. “Don’t do something like that again.”

“I can’t promise that.” Lance doesn’t give him breath to argue. “If I asked you for the same thing, you wouldn’t agree to it either, right?”

This time, the look on his face is defiant, and Keith knows that nothing he could say would be able to change his mind. That knowledge terrifies him as much as it uplifts him, because Lance could lose his life in the blink of an eye. 

Because Lance cares about him so much that he would risk that for him.  

Maria’s hand curls around Lance’s finger as she nods off, her chubby cheek smooshed against his chest.

“Hey, I think she’s asleep," Lance whispers, smiling. Carefully, he shifts his arms. “Here, now you try holding her."

Keith shakes his head. “Not yet. She looks peaceful.”

His arms gently pull Lance even closer, blood warming Lance's cheeks as their noses brush. Keith closes his eyes as they stay like that, just breathing in. Just committing every part of Lance to memory. 

For all the time afforded to him, there's never enough with the people that matter the most. 

“Keith,” Lance gasps softly, their lips only a breath apart, but Keith turns away at the last second. He tries not to focus on the pulse of hurt that bleeds from Lance as he walks out of the room, needing to clear his head.

“I’ll go get another blanket for her,” he says, hoping his voice doesn't falter. 

When he's far away enough, he pauses to look back.

Framed in the sunlight, Lance is rocking Maria, and he is the most beautiful person in the world. In that instance Keith knows, just as Mom once knew—

_I love him._

_I love him, I love him._

_I’ll do everything in my power to protect him._

Keith imagines a normal life; a human life. A life where he could grow old together with Lance and build a family. Love him to his dying breath, and love him still in whatever that awaits them beyond.

But that will never be meant for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Come chat with me on twitter or tumblr @ephemelody if you'd like.


	11. funnel cake heartbreaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LORDT I AM SO SORRY. IT'S BEEN TWO MONTHS. 
> 
> Had something really important going on for a while, but now I'm back! To all the new peeps who've joined since the last chapter, welcome!! To everyone who's commented, you have my undying love omg??? <333 Thanks for giving my ass the motivation to work on this with all my might ><
> 
> It's a slow chapter for this update, and I struggled a lot with the balance of it. There's a lot of tropes and cliches lol, but I hope you'll still enjoy it! 
> 
> This officially marks the beginning of part 2 of this story. The end is in sight :')

A lot of life seems to be spent chasing after something. Chasing after that dream you had since you were six. Chasing after the bus that always leaves right as you reach the stop. Chasing after the deadline for a homework assignment, or your little sister who stole your face masks, or that runaway onion down the aisle.

Chasing after the boy you like who just so happens to be a vampire. 

Well, that last one is something Lance never thought he would chase after.

“You didn’t have to come here, I know you’re busy and Mari needs—”

“Mari’s with Kolivan, which is the best place she could be.”

“Really?”

Keith laughs, and Lance feels instantly calmed by the sound. He loves Keith’s laugh. It’s so big and bright and unabashed. Lance wishes he could be the reason for it all the time. 

“Kolivan raised my mom,” Keith says after he quiets, eyes casting down and a half slant to his lips. “I think he missed it. Taking care of someone.”

There’s a tinge of melancholy to his words that makes Lance want to push off the wall and wrap him into his arms. Soothe away all that heartache, all those wraithlike scars. In the pale, morning light, no one would be able to guess that he’s anything but a boy. A boy who’s gone through too much.

“How are you feeling?” Keith asks, grounding Lance’s thoughts back into his own body, reminding him of where they are. Like a cornered animal, his nerves practically hiss in retaliation at the change in focus.

It’s the day of his last audition for Juilliard, so it’s not a surprise that he’s so on edge. Pidge and Hunk couldn’t make it this time because they were at MIT for the national robotics competition, and Keith had come instead, keeping Lance calm and making sure he ate a little something, being everything Lance needed.

“Honestly?” Lance bites his lip, fingers curling anxiously against the wall behind him. “Not ready.”

“Must be really bad if you’re admitting that.”

A group of jazz dancers skips past, and Keith steps forward to get out of the way, one arm coming to rest flat on the wall, right by Lance’s head. Lance feels his breath escape him like the opening of an airlock, his chest tight, his nerves even more so.

In this position, Keith encompasses him, and Lance wonders what they must look like in this sunlit hallway, so close together. Probably not like friends, more like… a couple? Keith hasn’t moved away, as if he’s content leaning over Lance, close enough that Lance can play with the silver accents of his leather jacket, stomach queasy for an entirely different reason aside from his looming audition.

When had Keith gotten a little taller than him? Lance has to look up now, just a bit, to meet his eyes. The sweep of his long lashes casts a faint web of shadows against the crest of his cheeks; there’s a mole at the corner of his brow bone, dark but almost too small to see. He’s so close that with every shallow breath, the scent of campfire and forest air floods through Lance’s senses, soothing and intoxicating.

Entranced, Lance almost doesn’t notice Keith studying him back, eyes half-lidded and dark. When he does, he quickly dips his own eyes down, cheeks burning from being caught staring. Faintly, he hears the huff of a quiet laugh, and tries his best not to shiver when Keith’s thumb comes to graze his hipbone, right above the thin fabric of his leotard.

“Where’s the confident Lance I know, hm?”

Keith’s voice is a near caress, soft and teasing and rough, and Lance has to grip the front of his jacket just a bit tighter to hold himself steady.

“Shoved himself down a wormhole,” he mumbles, still refusing to look up. He stops breathing completely when Keith presses his lips near the shell of his ear, body almost blanketing his. The thumb stroking the jut of his hip slides back, until Keith’s hand is a warm weight nestled against his side, anchoring him. 

“He promised me a dance after this, so tell him to come back.”

At that, a laugh drags out of Lance. _Right_ , when he had been talking himself up on the ride here, trying to quell the roil in his stomach. Keith’s hair tickles his cheek as he moves away, and Lance finds the courage to look at him again.

“You’ve practiced more than enough,” continues Keith. There’s not an inkling of doubt in his voice. “You can do this.”

Lance nods, hoping his skin doesn’t reflect just how flustered and overwhelmed he is in the wake of Keith’s utter faith in him. That accompanied by the way Keith’s hand is rubbing gently up and down his side, comforting him as much as it burns through to his core. Keith touches him a lot now, and although Lance can’t say he minds, every ghost of Keith’s fingers across his skin, the pressure of his hand against the curve of his waist, has Lance yearning for more.

“I had a dream about you this morning,” he blurts out. The look of wonder in Keith’s eyes has him stammering quickly, “A-and Mari.”

“What about?”

“Nothing, really.” Lance tilts his head back down, rocking on his toes, fingers fiddling with the zipper. His heart hammers against his lungs as he speaks. “I dreamt of, um, waking up next to you. And you were holding Mari, doing that airplane thing, you know? Like leaning her against your feet and pretending she was flying. I just…”

_And you set Mari gently beside me and blew a kiss into her belly, making her giggle and shout, and your hair was a tangled mess even though somehow I knew I helped you wash it with conditioner last night, and when I leaned up you pressed your smile against mine, and—_

“I woke up happy.”

It’s easy, somehow, admitting that. _You make me happy._ Slowly, he looks back up, and Keith’s smile makes him lose his breath. 

“I also dreamed about you,” he says.

Lance wants to bury his blood-hot cheeks into his hands. He tries to play it off by slapping his palms lightly against his cheeks and squishing them around a laugh. “Stop, you’re kidding!”

“I’m not.” Keith gently grabs his wrists and pulls them away, lacing their fingers together instead. He seems just as nervous now, a timidness to his voice and a shade of warmth in his skin. “We were by the ocean, it was sunset, and you were calling for me to go for a swim, but I wouldn’t go in.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t remember.” Lance deflates a little at his answer, but Keith’s eyes shift back to hold his, gaze as soft as twilight.

“I think… I was happy just looking at you. I was afraid that the dream would end if I went to you.”

And there it is again: the rapid beat of his heart, like giving chase.

An ache.

“You should’ve gone to me,” Lance says. He sounds almost petulant. Fierce. He can’t make sense of Keith’s reasoning, the way his expression shadows like the passing of a cloud. The way he feels like he’s disappearing into somewhere dark.  

“I wish I did.”

“Lance Mendéz? You’re up next.”

From down the hall, a proctor slides out from behind a door, searching for him. Keith steps away, and the moment is gone. Their hands stay linked together.

“Good luck.” He’s smiling again. “Razzle dazzle them.”

He swings their arms side to side as Lance snorts, nerves and laughter spilling out anew. “Please say that again, oh my god.”

“Razzle dazzle?” 

Another peal of giggles bubbles from his throat, and Keith lets go to pinch his side. He leans in, wrapping Lance up into his arms, and for a moment Lance thinks he’s about to kiss him, and he holds his breath because, _god_ , he wants him to. It’s a want almost too large to bear. He wishes Keith would take some of the weight with him. 

“Breathe,” Keith murmurs instead, a note of laughter in his voice, hand massaging the small of Lance’s back. The touch is as soothing as it is electrifying, and Lance shudders as he holds on — arms curled around Keith’s neck, eyes fluttering shut. “Sweetheart, I can feel your heartbeat.”

Their foreheads press together. Their noses brush. Still, Keith doesn’t bridge the space between them. Still, he doesn’t seal the distance.

Maybe it’s for the better. For now, at least.

 _Think of the ocean_ , Mama once said. _There’s one, inside of you. Don’t drown yourself._

Lance takes a deep breath.

 

.

.

.

 

The wind is bitterly cold as they fly down the street.

Lance holds onto Keith and shuts his eyes.

He barely registers it when they come to a stop — doesn’t startle until Keith touches his hand, warmth seeping through his gloves to thaw his frozen fingertips. Keith slides off the bike first before turning around, reaching up to tug Lance’s helmet off, slow and gentle.

“Let’s stop here for a bit, okay?”

He’s looking at Lance too softly, as if he’s afraid Lance will break apart in front of him. Lance wonders what kind of expression he’s wearing to warrant such a look. He nods, stumbling off the bike himself, letting Keith brace the fall. When Keith’s arms lift to hold onto him though, Lance shakes his head, tearing away.

Keith gives him space.

They’re parked by the oceanside, on a strip of sidewalk near the bridge. The waves are a dark wash of ink and silver beyond the bleached white rails, the lamplight hazy. On the other side, Manhattan is a muted jewel, glimmering in and out of focus. 

Lance knows he has several missed calls and text messages from his parents, another several from Luna and Liam. He knows Hunk and Pidge and Allura are all worried about him, too, but he doesn’t want to open any of them. If he answers, he knows the dam inside him will break, and above anything else, he doesn’t want to cry right now.

Keith walks up, but he stays a stride back. Lance can’t decide if he wants Keith to drive off and leave him here for the rest of the night, or cross the space between them and tuck him into the safe space of his arms. Make him forget. 

“When do you hear back?” Keith asks after a while. Too soft again. Too considerate. Lance inhales, deep enough that his lungs ache from the pressure, and lets go.

“Not until early May.”

“Don’t count yourself out until then.”

But Lance is already going through the motions of it. Has been ever since he stepped out of that audition room, head bowed and legs trembling, not at all like the triumphant exit he had hoped for. He can’t help but keep replaying it, over and over. The moment he messed up a step. The moment he had to start over, body numb from shock and mind a wreck.

“Lance, Lance stop. Stop thinking about it.”

He can’t.

“I messed up.” The panic and anxiety swell suddenly, sweeping into the highest tide, and there’s nothing Lance can do to hold them back. “It’s the only college I applied to, and I know you’re not supposed to put all your eggs into a basket but there wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to go and now—”

“Lance—”

“I should’ve practiced more. I should’ve— It wasn’t enough—”

“Would you have ever thought it was enough?”

The raw, desperate pain in Keith’s voice is the only thing that jolts Lance from his derailing thoughts. He turns to look at the other boy, flinching at the distress he sees there. How resolutely those dark eyes burn. “Lance, you practiced _so fucking hard_ for this. You gave it everything. Don’t discredit yourself and say you didn’t do enough.”

Lance tilts his head to the side and tries to blink away the tears, but they only solidify in his throat, heavy and cold. His heart feels bruised from the weight of them.

“Do you know what it’s like, to want something so badly?”

He can barely make out Keith through the blur of water, but he can feel him, warm and gentle and fierce, as his hand comes to cradle his jaw and his thumb catches the fall of a tear.

“Yes,” Keith says, as if his heart is breaking too. 

This time, when Keith wraps him up, Lance doesn’t push him away. He lets Keith run his hand up and down his back, lets Keith murmur comforts and reassurances into his ear. _Sweetheart, you’ll be okay. You’re going to be great._ Lance hides his face in the shelter of Keith’s collarbone and lets the dam collapse, sob after sob shaking out of him, softened only by the warmth of Keith’s skin and the brush of the tides.

He’s tired of being strong for today. He just wants to rest. 

“Lance,” Keith says, lips pressed against his temple. He sounds like a memory; a sunlit summer that seems more dream than real. “When you dance, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m so amazed by everything you do, everything you are, every single day.”

Another sob shudders out of Lance, disbelieving of Keith’s sincerity, yet wanting to believe in him nevertheless. How could Keith think so highly of him? He’s just an ordinary teenager in high school. He’s just a boy from Cuba. Just Lance.

 _Just Lance_ , who's dreamed of going to Juilliard since he was six years old. _Just Lance_ , who's never stopped chasing after that dream, and has always believed dancing on stage would be his fate.  

“If they reject you, I’ll reject them.”

The suddenness and strangeness of Keith’s statement throws Lance for a loop. “What, no—” His laugh is wet, but it’s real and bright. "How?”

“I’ll build a dance school and you’ll be the only one accepted,” Keith says, completely serious. 

Another bubble of laughter almost rocks Lance off his feet. The only thing preventing him from tumbling backwards is Keith’s arms looped around his waist, holding him steady. “Stop, that’s not how it works, dummy—”

Gradually, the tears stop, his heart resettling. Keith gently rubs the tear stains from his flushed cheeks, not even hesitating to wipe his gross, snotty nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“You still up for that dance you promised me?”

Keith tries to sound lighthearted, but Lance can tell he’s not done worrying about him. For Keith alone, he’ll try to be strong for a little while longer. The tears will come again — in the arms of his parents, when he’s trying to fall asleep — but for now he wants Keith to smile, too, just like how he made Lance smile.

After he nods, Keith tucks an earbud in, one for each of them. Splaying his other hand over the small of Lance’s back, he laces their fingers together, swaying back and forth as the music starts.

“Hey, this is my favorite song,” Lance whispers.

The space between them feels so weighted, so fragile, and Lance doesn’t want to do anything to ruin it.

Keith, holding him close. Keith, looking at him as if he’s the only thing that matters in the world.

“Mine too.”

A few months ago, Lance had been hellbent on running away from Keith. Now, he can’t imagine his life without him. Keith’s always there for him. Keith always makes him feel safe, and happy, and right.

By the sea, beneath the stars, Lance realizes:

_Hey, Keith?_

_I think I’m in love with you._

 

.

.

.

 

_Maybe that’s fate, too._

 

.

.

.

 

It takes almost two weeks for Lance to feel right again, until Teresa comes back for spring break.

His dearest sister, hair a storm of curls and skin painted even darker by the California sun. A part of Lance had been irrationally worried that college would make her change into someone he wouldn’t recognize, but she was the same shade of radiant and annoying as ever.

“Tea, why are you in my room again?”

“Because I love and missed my adorable younger brother?”

“Do you smell that? Smells like bull—”

“Yeah, actually, I need to borrow your nail polish.”

Teresa waves a hand beseechingly from her sprawl on top of his bed, the other grasping her phone, scrolling through. Lance props his hands on his hips and lets out a theatrical sigh, before trudging to his desk where all the nail polish is lined up.

“You know it’s not cute when you act like you’re not happy to see me,” Teresa says when he plops down on the bed with her favorite color, laying down a wash cloth and unscrewing the cap. He throws her a half-glare, half-pout as she flicks his cheek, a look they both know is as fake as his disgruntlement.

Lance did miss this, hanging out in his room, painting his sister’s nails as they talked — from petty gossip to the shows they’re watching to the next existential crisis. He listens attentively now as Teresa rambles about her volleyball team, the frat parties she’s gone to, the writing classes she’s taking. She seems genuinely content and at a place she wants to be in life, and Lance couldn’t be happier for her.

Just as they’re about to swap off, Lance’s favorite blue shade propped on top of a calculus textbook, his cellphone rings. When he sees who’s calling, Lance nearly knocks over the nail polish in his haste to pick it up, much to Teresa’s chagrin.

“Keith?”

“Hey, I’m outside your front door.”

“What?”

Keith’s warm laugh filters through. “Just look outside and get ready. I’m taking you somewhere.”

Lance whips up on his bed and twists toward the window, pushing the blinds apart.

“Ooohh, who’s that?” Teresa elbows him away to peek through the blinds, too. “Oh my god, he’s _hot_! Who have you been hiding, Lance?”

“Not now, Tea, he’s waiting for me!” Lance hops from one leg to another as he tugs a pair of socks on, scrambling for the bathroom across the hall to check his appearance. He’s feeling a little panicked, and his hair is disheveled, and there’s a pimple forming smack in the middle of his chin no no _no_ —

“Yeah, he definitely won’t want to kiss you now.”

“ _Tea!_ ”

Lance quickly dabs a layer of concealer over the reddening spot, before running his fingers through his hair, trying to tame some of the flyaway curls.

“Wait, don’t wear that,” Teresa says when Lance makes a grab for his olive field jacket. Lance flexes a perplexed brow.

“Why not? It’s gonna be cold in—”

“Dummy, trust me! Now get going.”

Teresa chases Lance down the stairs, not that he wasn’t already tumbling forward like a sack of potatoes. He pauses only in the foyer to shove on his converses and remind himself that he shouldn’t seem too eager. That he’s gotta be cool about this. Like a zucchini. Or was it a cucumber? _Ugh, whatever!_

All rational thought crash-lands spectacularly on the pavement anyway when he opens the door, seeing Keith dressed in his leather jacket and straddling his Ducati, the afternoon sunlight framing the perfect mess of his hair. 

“Hey,” Lance says, out of breath in more ways than one. Jesus, he sounds like a dying whale. A very lovestruck but dying whale.

“Hey.” Keith’s smile is crooked, making him even more handsome _what the fuck_. Lance thinks he might cry. “Ready to go?”

“Where?” He’s already getting on the bike because, well, who cares. Keith could be taking him to a graveyard and Lance would still follow him everywhere. Preferably holding his hand, clinging onto his arm for dear life. 

Keith hands him his helmet. “It’s a surprise.”

“All right, Magic Mullet-man. Whisk me away.”

They ride as the sun starts sinking, a flame across the open water when they cross over the bridge. Lance tries to guess along the way, unsuccessfully until a familiar strip of road appears before them, the Coney Island sign unmistakable as they pass.

“Luna Park? I haven’t been here since I was a kid!”

The red and blue pinwheels above the entrance gleam rhythmically in the cradle of four crescent moon billboards, the amusement park’s name shining in loopy cursive. Lance bounces up and down on his feet after they find a parking spot, unable to contain his excitement. Keith, seeing his reaction, looks exceptionally pleased with himself, smiling quietly. 

He extends his hand, and Lance slides their fingers together, the gesture like second nature now.

Keith pays for both their tickets, even as Lance yells at him not to, and clearly doesn’t listen when Lance swears he’ll pay him back. Once they’re inside, Lance sees that the park’s changed quite a bit since the last time he came with his family, new rides that he doesn’t recognize glowing brilliantly in the night.

It’s a Thursday, so thankfully the lines aren’t too long, and with the both of them being thrill seekers, they spend the next few hours going on every single roller coaster twice.

“Woah, hey, we haven’t been on that one yet!” Lance waves his finger up and down, pointing at a two-armed monstrosity in the distance dubbed _The Zenobio_. It somersaults in a perfect circle through the sky, screams resounding from the free-hanging seats on the ends. “Let’s go on it until we puke!”

Keith scoffs around a smirk. “You’ll puke after the first ride.”

“Oh, you’re on!”

They both admit defeat after the fourth time going around, leaning against each other by the bushes, practically delirious from vertigo.

“Come on piglet, pull the trigger!” Lance wheezes, laughing as he tries to thump Keith’s back but ends up tripping over his own feet instead. They tumble onto the concrete — two dumb, dizzy teenagers, gasping for breath.

“Got nothing to puke,” Keith grunts, dodging when Lance tries to prod his stomach. _Oh_ , now there’s a set of rock hard abs; and then, _oh no_ , Keith’s fighting back. They dissolve into a weird, playful scuffle, wrestling on the floor until Lance is basically trapped in Keith’s lap, giggling helplessly as Keith tickles him into submission. God, they must look ridiculous, messing around like this in the middle of the amusement park. Everyone passing by either peers at them curiously or veers in the opposite direction.

After they’ve recovered, laughter petering out, Keith asks: “Wanna get something to eat?”

Lance instantly forgets his nausea at the mention of food and the wafting scent of fried carbs, stomach growling comically for good measure. Keith laughs and takes his hand once more, guiding him toward the food court.

Despite his protests, Keith spends money on him again, buying a funnel cake that Lance munches all too happily, the buttery treat melting inside his mouth. Sugar dust flies everywhere, but he’s too hungry to care about the mess he’s no doubt making.

Keith seems content just watching him. His body is facing Lance as he straddles the bench, elbow on the table and head propped against his knuckles. He’s staring so intently Lance almost feels self-conscious, leg jostling up and down in his telltale nervous tick. 

“Um, do you wanna try?” he offers, forking a piece of funnel cake and holding it up for Keith. Maybe he’s just curious about what it tastes like.

Keith either doesn’t hear him or completely ignores the question, though.

“You got some, here,” he says, before reaching up to swipe at the corner of Lance’s mouth, bringing his thumb to his own lips to lick the sugar off.

Lance combusts on the spot.

“K-K- _Keith!_ ”

“What?”

Keith has the audacity to look like he did nothing wrong, while Lance’s whole body burns like he’s been toasted like a marshmallow in a bonfire. Every cell, every nerve is alight. Keith doesn’t even seem to notice the fire hydrant flush of his skin, thumb reaching again to wipe off more sugar dust — this time a solid, firm swipe across his lower lip, the pressure tingling all the way down Lance’s spine.

“Hm, can’t taste it,” he murmurs contemplatively, before moving in for more. Lance quickly blocks the hand, clapping his own over his mouth.

“If you can’t taste it, stop eating it off me!”

At that, Keith pouts, noticeably deflating into a brooding sulk. Lance hates him for being so cute and endearing.

He hates himself all the more for being disappointed that Keith didn’t taste the sugar on his lips with his mouth.

After finally polishing off his food with no further distractions, they stroll through the rest of the park, coming across the carnival game section. Every booth is laden with a myriad of prizes, from sling-shot helicopter lights to giant stuffed unicorns. They start at the strongman stand, where Keith not only breaks Lance’s composure but also the game itself, the bell at the top of the high striker splitting clean in half after Keith swings the mallet down.

While Keith looks incredibly proud of himself, eyes darting to Lance for approval, Lance apologizes profusely to everyone staring in awe, dragging the vampire away from the scene of the crime as fast as he can.

They go for less strength-oriented games after that, a shooting booth in particular catching Lance’s eye. There's a stuffed lion plushie hanging off a hook that seems to catch Keith's eye as well, with a red fur coat and squishy robot limbs. Lance recognizes the design from an old TV show, something Ari used to watch on Sunday mornings. 

Keith goes first, managing to hit three bottles but missing the other two by a scant. He does really well, for a game that's designed to fail, and Lance claps appreciatively. 

“Here, now watch me.”

This he has confidence in, and it shows. Taking a breath and steadying his hold, it only takes a few seconds for Lance to shoot down five glass bottles in a tidy row. The booth runner whistles, and Lance cocks his hip, twirling the gun in his hand with an air of nonchalance before setting it down.

Inside, he’s burning, feeling invincible in the wake of Keith’s admiring gaze.

“All right, Sharpshooter." A thrill bolts through Lance at the new nickname, made even brighter by the slow sweep of Keith's eyes down his figure. "You’ve got me beat.”

“What would you like, sir?” the man behind the booth asks. It takes a second too long for Lance to respond. 

“You wanted the red robot lion, right?”

Keith's expression morphs into surprise. “No, get something for yourself. You won.”

“Nuh uh, that’s not what I asked,” Lance tuts. “Do you want the red lion?" Slowly, Keith nods. "Red lion it is then.”

In the cool night, Keith’s cheeks are a light shade of pink when Lance holds out the prize, jiggling it insistently. He tucks it underneath his arm, and waits for Lance to slot himself against his other side before they walk off. 

"Thank you," he whispers, warm by Lance's ear. Lance shakes his head and squeezes Keith's arm tight, happiness and affection welling inside him like an overflowing tub. 

"I should be the one thanking you, for bringing me here." 

"I wanted to cheer you up. Did it work?" 

Lance nods, pressing his nose and lips to Keith's shoulder. "Like magic." 

As the night gets colder, Keith takes off his jacket and drapes it around Lance. When he walks away to fetch the two of them water, Lance wiggles into it, delighted with how cozy the jacket fits and how warm the fabric is. Burying his nose into the collar, he breathes in deep and doesn’t bother to suppress a happy sigh, relishing Keith’s comforting scent.

He’ll have to thank Tea for her last minute suggestion later.

"I heard there'll be fireworks starting soon," Keith says when he comes back. "It's for the Park’s fiftieth anniversary. Do you wanna watch before we head home?" 

Blood rushes up Lance's cheeks, and he quickly nods his head, partly to hide how awfully big the smile is on his face. Does Keith realize what he sounds like, saying the word  _home_  in that kind of sentence? 

 _It's not that deep, Lance, it's not that deep_ , he tries to remind himself. But it doesn't help that, when someone bumps into them, they notice the same thing, too. 

“Oh, sorry man. Didn’t mean to run into your boyfriend,” the guy apologizes, smiling ruefully at Keith when Keith shoots him a light glare. 

Keith's arm comes to wrap protectively around Lance's waist, pulling him closer, and Lance busies himself reassuring the guy that no harm was done despite Keith's prickly attitude.

“Enjoy the fireworks!”

"Thanks, you too!" 

_Boyfriend._

That guy had called Lance Keith's _boyfriend._

Lance could scream. 

“You okay?”

"Y-Yeah! Yeah, I'm fine." 

It's not long before the fireworks start, the black sky scorched in gorgeous splashes of color. Lance does his best to focus, but even the beauty of the lights can't capture his thoughts the way the boy holding him can. Keith burns brighter in every corner of his mind, kindling him, consuming him. That's love, isn't it? To be wholly consumed by another.  

Keith, who makes him laugh even when he's unhappy. Keith, who always takes such good care of him. 

Is Keith consumed by him, too? 

“Hey, was this a date?”

When Lance turns around in his arms, Keith’s eyes widen like a startled cub’s, and Lance would’ve laughed at the innocence of the expression if his heart wasn’t pounding so fast, so harsh, almost singing down to his fingertips.

The light of the fireworks bloom across Keith’s face, yet even then, his expression remains dark. Unreadable. Dread sinks into Lance's stomach as he watches the shadow fall over Keith's eyes, usually so clear and bright.

Was he wrong? 

“You like me, don’t you?” he barrels on, and he can’t help the pleading edge that bleeds into his voice. He flushes hotly at the boldness of his own words, but he won’t take them back.

Keith looks away.

That simple action fractures something inside of Lance. Keith may as well have torn a piece of his heart out with him.

_Why are you running away? Don't be so close yet too far for me to reach._

His hands clench around the fabric of Keith’s jacket, and Keith gently grasps his wrists to tug them away. Yet, he doesn’t let go. Instead, he slides their fingers together, tangling them as if he can’t bear to let Lance be anywhere but near, even as he’s rejecting him.

When Keith finally speaks, he sounds gutted.

“Lance, _don’t_. It’s… it’s not allowed.”

The dread morphs into heartache. Embarrassment and pain. Lance hates that he feels like crying. Hates that Keith will hold him close but never enough.

“Bullshit, then why is Matt dating your brother?”

Keith flinches, their linked hands jerking from the force of it. “This is… different.”

“How?" Lance demands. "Tell me why.” His voice falters. " _Please._ " 

“...I can’t.”

Lance tears his hands away, and this time, Keith lets him go. 

“I want you," he says, quiet and hoarse, so much so that Lance wonders if he had imagined it in his heartbreak. "All the time. You have no idea how much.”

“Then have me," Lance replies, and the inhale of Keith's breath is cutting, but he still won't look Lance in the eye. “I— I like you, Keith. And it sounds like you like me, too.”

“We can’t, Lance.”

It's a long while before either of them speak again, not until the fireworks end. Not until all the lights in the sky flicker out. 

“It’s late. Let me take you home.”

.

.

.

 

_Home doesn't have the same meaning anymore._

 

.

.

.

 

Lance tries to stay mad at Keith. He really does.

But Keith still drives him to dance practice on Monday, and it’s hard when he’s so warm and the spring air is still on the side of chilly, nights freezing. It’s all too easy for Lance to wrap his arms around Keith’s waist and soak in his comforting heat.

“Why are you always so cold?” Keith asks when they get off the bike, laughter breathless as he cradles Lance’s face into his hands, fingertips tracing frosted cheekbones and the nipped shells of his ears. His eyes are filled with so much affection Lance thinks he might actually melt from the warmth of them, become nothing but a lovestruck pile of goop that only thinks of Keith, Keith, _Keith_.

Lance turns to hide his face in the palm of the Keith’s hand, pressing his lips against the heated leather, making a shy, noncommittal sound from back of his throat.

“I have you to keep me warm.”

When he opens his eyes, he sees Keith’s breath hitch. Sees the clarity of Keith’s gaze darken to wine, drinking him in like a man in worship.

Lance feels almost triumphant when Keith shifts away, the tips of his ears singed red in the low light.

“Come in with me.”

He takes Keith’s hand, pulling him to the entrance of the dance studio. Keith follows him obediently, expression still dazed. Lance bites his bottom lip and tries not to preen too much.

Once they’re inside, Lance sees that he’s the first to arrive, the studio floors empty of duffel bags and polished to a glossy sheen. Lance drops his bag by the wall and shrugs off his coat, watching Keith wander around out of the corner of his eyes, the vampire’s head tilting curiously.

Just as he’s about to wiggle out of his sweatpants, Keith looks back at him, and Lance may or may not have taken his sweet time shucking the garment off. He’s not confident enough to look at Keith’s expression as he walks past though, eyes lowered to the floor, trying to recall his stretch routine.

Lance splays out on the dance floor, legs spread wide in a split as he bends over deeply. He lets out a groan of satisfaction when his spine cracks, once, twice, muffling the sound into his shoulder. Beside him, Keith sits down, just out of reach. He still hasn’t spoken a word, but Lance can feel him at the other end of the line, the tension between them as palpable and taut as a piano wire.

After a minute, Keith asks: “Do you shave your legs?”

He seems surprised by his own forwardness, a backtracking sentence already appearing on the tip of his tongue, but Lance won’t let him take it back.

“Yeah, I like the feel of them. Here, touch.”

Lance lifts one long leg up, arching it in front of Keith. Beneath his loose white tank, he’s wearing black bike shorts today, the material gripping his thighs, highlighting their shape. And while he’s not proud of every aspect of his body, he knows his legs look damn good from years of dance training, and he’s always taken great care to keep every inch of his skin healthy and glowing.

Playfully, he wiggles his toes with a grin, appearing confident despite the rabbit pace of his heart. He catches the hesitant twitch of Keith’s fingers and holds his breath.

Eventually, at a near glacial speed, Keith presses the flat of his palm against Lance’s calf, gripping the curve of it before stroking up.

“ _Ah_ —”

The gasp slips out of him before Lance can clamp his mouth shut, stifling any more embarrassing sounds. Keith’s rough palm feels unbelievably good dragging across the softness of his skin; warm, delicious friction sparking beneath every hard calluses, flaring through Lance’s gut and turning him molten. Lance tries not to squirm as Keith’s touch grows bolder, kneading the muscles of his leg firmly. Reverently.

When his touch travels past the knee, Lance realizes this was actually a terrible idea, especially when he’s wearing something so tight, but he can’t get enough of it. He doesn’t want Keith to stop. Wants Keith to keep touching him, more and more and _more_ —

Leaning onto his hands and arching the small of his back, Lance steels himself and asks: “Help me stretch?”

He lifts his other leg, toe grazing the edge of Keith’s hip. Latches onto the way Keith’s pupils contract, the uneven rise and fall of his chest.

Suddenly, Keith grabs both his thighs and hauls him forward with one firm tug. Lance yelps, sliding down until his back is flat on the floor, hips raised up to meet Keith’s, legs wrapping instinctively around Keith’s waist.

Lance’s heart is a war drum as Keith leans down — surrounding him, caging him in.

When he looks up into the vampire’s eyes, they’re dark red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEH >:3c 
> 
> See you next time!!


	12. half-bond

After Mom and Dad’s deaths, Keith dreamt often of chasing.

He dreamt of chasing after Shiro’s receding figure. He dreamt of chasing down Zarkon’s corpse and killing him with his own hands. He dreamt of darkness with no way out, running in circles searching for anyone, _anyone, please_ , until he woke up.

He’s dreaming now — of Mom’s hand against his cheek, of Dad’s’s firm, comforting hold on his shoulder, pulling him into the dark.

Someone shakes him, tearing him loose from the grip of unconsciousness. 

“Dude, I thought you were dead!”

 _Daytime_ , Keith registers, blinking his eyes open. He must have passed out from the heat after wandering so long under the sun. His muscles feel like dead weights; he knows he hasn’t eaten in days. He’s not sure where he is, though, the surroundings unfamiliar. Head spinning and stomach cramping, Keith stares at the boy leaning over him, his face shielding the sunlight filtering in through the trees.

Pouty lips, a cute pert nose. Brown curls framing high cheekbones, gilded in red and gold. There’s a smattering of freckles beneath the deep blue of his eyes, and they’re wide-eyed and worried as they search Keith’s face. _Beautiful_ , Keith thinks, dazed. He smells as sweet as he looks, too. An irresistible scent that both quells and ignites the thirst roaring inside him. 

“You were just lying here and I tripped over your body! And you wouldn’t wake up!” the boy cries. He looks so distressed, and Keith notices that there are teardrops sticking to his lashes. Why? He didn’t know Keith. They’ve never met. Why would he care for a complete stranger? The boy touches his forehead, and Keith jolts from the touch. He’s cold, but it soothes the heat simmering beneath Keith’s skin, longing for more. “You’re warm though, so I guess you can’t be a zombie or a corpse.”

The boy’s pinched brows smooth over, softening to a smile. Keith’s breath hitches at the sight.

His eyes sting from the glare of daylight, his throat burns violently, and there’s a cavity inside his chest that he’s never felt before. It feels like thirst, but also something more, a feeling too overwhelming to understand, nearly bringing him to tears.

A half kind of ache, fluttering and lonely and warm.

“I’m Lance. What’s your name?”

“…Keith.”

“Well, Keith, what are you doing here? And what’s up with your hair? Mullets went out of style in the eighties, you know.”

The boy laughs, big and bright, and Keith didn’t wish for the darkness anymore.

 

.

.

.

 

“Keith?”

Keith surfaces back to the present, staring at the boy splayed out below him. _I’m Lance. What’s your name?_ Lance, who captured his heart in an instant. Lance, who doesn’t even remember any of it. In parts, he still looks like the way he did when they first met, but as a whole, he has only become more beautiful, more radiant. A light in Keith’s never-ending darkness.

After they met, Keith stopped dreaming about following Mom and Dad into the dark. Stopped dreaming of Zarkon’s shadow, of Shiro’s dismembered body. Instead, he dreamed of the boy named Lance.

Lance with the comforting hand pressed against Keith’s forehead. Lance with the dimpled smile that made Keith forget. He dreamed of chasing Lance into the sun, of seeing him dance one more time. He dreamed of Lance living brightly without him, happy and surrounded by loved ones until his dying breath.

Now, in those dreams and in his waking hours, Keith knows that even after Lance passes on, he’ll still be searching for that ocean found only in his eyes. The sweetness of his laughter. His scent in the moments Keith hid him against his chest.

 _You have him now, right here._ Keith’s grip reflexively tightens, and Lance’s lips fall open in a soft, gut-wrenching gasp. _He’s yours._  

It would be so easy, to lean down and seal the final distance. Kiss the pulse beating frantic beneath his neck. Lick him loose, tender, and sink his teeth into flesh.

Keith could drink his fill, if he could ever have enough.

 _This is bad, we have to stop,_ the voice of reason chimes faintly inside his head. Yet Keith couldn’t let go, hand dragging up the dancer’s hips, dipping beneath his thin white shirt. His fingers brush against hot, bare skin and the whine that escapes Lance’s lips goes straight to his gut.

The hem of his tank top slides up his abdomen. One of the straps slips down his shoulder. He looks wrecked and Keith hasn’t even done anything to him yet. How responsive would he be if Keith actually touched him? Kissed him? 

Lance’s pulse thrums, and his blood is so pungent and sweet beneath his skin Keith is dizzy with the need for it. His mouth is parched, his throat scorched. With every shallow breath, his deepest desires unveil themselves, blinding his judgement as one hand holds onto Lance’s naked waist and the other trails up, tracing neck and jaw and lips. 

When the pad of Keith’s thumb ghosts over the plush curve of Lance’s mouth, it falls open, tongue grazing the sensitive skin. Doe eyes look up at Keith demurely, and it makes Keith’s heart throb something sharp. It makes him lose focus.

Slowly, Lance bares his neck, curving the graceful length and exposing the flutter of his pulse point. He doesn’t unhook his legs. He doesn’t look away. The blue of his irises is almost swallowed completely black. Keith inhales as if he’s been punched in his stomach, unhinged by the wave of Lance’s emotions that slams into his own.

Lance wants him.

Lance craves him.

“Lance, don’t,” Keith begs, low and hoarse. He tears his hand away with all his strength and backs up, trying to clear the thick fog in his head. _Stop. You don’t know what you’re asking for._

But Lance surges forward and straddles Keith’s lap. Keith groans at the feeling of Lance pressed against him, hands instinctively wrapping around his waist, splaying over the small of his back to hold him steady. Lance curls into him, fingers delving into Keith’s hair, leaning their foreheads together.

“Please,” is all he says, and Keith feels reamed open by the softness of his plea. Lance spills into that open space — fills Keith up and drowns him sweetly, until Keith is helpless but to cling onto him like a lifeline, nose pressed against the hollow of his throat. The next breath has his fangs extending, and he’s waited so long for this, wanted this for so long, surely Lance will forgive him when—

He senses her before he sees her.

_Shit._

“Lance, you’re here earl— Oh.”

“ _Allura!_ ”

Lance’s surprised scream hurts almost as much as the foot that somehow slams into Keith’s jaw, his legs wheeling through the air in his haste to separate their bodies. Keith keels over, hiding his face against the burnished wood floor and hand nursing his jaw, mind racing.

“Oh my god, Keith! I’m sorry!”

Lance flutters around him, before gently lifting his head from the floor to cradle it in his lap. Keith rests his ear against Lance’s thigh and presses his face into his shirt, still keeping it from Allura’s view.

In a way, he’s glad she showed up now. He had almost given into the bloodlust and made a decision for Lance. Took a choice away from him when he didn’t even know the circumstances. That can’t happen again.

Meeting Allura like this though, well. He would’ve rather prepared for it. But that’s his punishment for letting his guard down.

Delicate fingers sift through his hair, helping him relax and keep the inevitable confrontation at bay. “Are you okay?”

He is, but he says “no” anyway. He wants to be in this moment in Lance for a little longer.

“Let me see!” Lance cries.

Keith sits up, leaning back on one hand and tilting his jaw, smile crooked.

“Kiss it better?”

Lance turns a bright shade of tomato red again, and Keith laughs as he’s weakly shoved on the shoulder.

“Keith, you ass! I really thought—”

“Lance, who’s this?”

Allura stands right above them, and Keith knows he can’t avoid this confrontation any longer. He finds her feigned innocence almost funny. _Who’s this?_ Your almost brother-in-law, once upon a time. That’s who.

“This is Keith, he’s my, um. Friend!”

Lance’s response, he finds less funny, even though he has no right to be disappointed and irritated. Standing up, he extends his hand, smirking at Allura’s pinched look as she shakes it.

“Nice to meet you, Allura.” 

“Likewise, Keith.” Her grip could snap every bone in his hand if Keith didn’t have the same elevated strength. “Welcome to Altea Dance Studio. Lance, why don’t you keep stretching and I’ll show Keith around?”

“Yeah, sure, if Keith wants to.” Lance nods, looking at their tense exchange with a quirked brow, though remaining none the wiser. “I mean there’s not much to see other than the demon cow—”

“Keith, I’m sure you’ll find our Kaltenecker installation _very_ fascinating.”

Allura doesn’t wait for him to follow, striding briskly back into the hallway. Keith breathes a subtle sigh, turning to give Lance a small smile.

“I’ll see you after practice.”

“Mm, yeah.” Lance instinctively reaches for his hand, hesitating when he realizes his own movement. Keith takes it and brushes his thumb along his knuckles, squeezing gently before letting go. Where did his confidence from earlier go? Lance smiles shyly, and Keith shelters it in his memory, like all of Lance’s expressions. 

He follows Allura around several other hallways and corners until they reach a quiet stairwell, a cow statue with demon horns and bat-like wings hiding underneath it. It’s definitely filled with cursed energy, though there’s nothing actually dangerous about it. Still, why the hell would they keep something like this here?

“I didn’t know you were back,” Allura starts. Keith leans against the wall, several steps away from her, and crosses his arms. 

“Your girlfriend did a good job then.”

“Nyma knew?” There’s a brief flash of surprise and hurt before Allura masks it, the set of her jaw firm. “Why are you here?”

“Business,” Keith answers easily. “Your father’s company and mine are still merged, you should know that.”

“Why are you here _with Lance_?” Allura presses, her eyes fierce and far away, brown irises shifting back to blue as she recedes into the past. Keith despises the twist of her tone. “What are your intentions?”

“If you’ve already labeled me the enemy Allura does it even matter what I say—”

“Is it wrong for me to worry about what you’re doing with my friend—?”

“When you automatically assume I’m going to hurt him yes!”

“What else am I supposed to think when I catch you about to sink your teeth into his neck?!” 

“That was a mistake. I would never do that to him.”

Allura scoffs. “Why not? You used to pick off human boys one after the other.”

Keith sees red.

“Don’t you _dare_ judge me on what I did to cope after what happened, Allura,” he snarls, low and dark. Out of everything, the implication that he would ever endanger Lance’s life, that he would ever treat Lance like the humans he used to use and throw away against his better morals, pisses him off the most. “This is different.”

“Different how? Because you have feelings for Lance?” Allura is being needlessly cruel, and she knows that, Keith knows she knows that. “How long have you even known him? Since school started? Lance has been talking to me about a new classmate of his, but why the hell would you—”

Allura’s eyes widen, glowing faintly with light as they stumble on a realization.

“Wait a minute. You—” she’s rendered speechless for a moment, and Keith grimaces, hands clenching into fists.

“Come on, you take pride in being the perceptive one, don’t you Allura? Figure it out.”

“Lance had an accident. Last year.”

“Yes.”

“I had thought— There’s no way he could’ve—” The shock slices across her face, her hair bleeding back to white as she relinquishes the remaining hold of her magic, seeing right through Keith. “You— _What did you do_ , _Keith?_ ”

“You already know, don’t you? You know what I had to have done, to keep him here.”

The expression on Allura’s face now is nothing short of horrified. And something else, too, beneath the layers of years and scars.

Sadness. Pity. The remnants of affection, familial and comforting.

“Does Shiro know?”

“No.”

A pause. “How is he?”

“Do you care?”

“Keith.” Allura appears pained, genuinely. But she left them. She has no right to pretend she still gives a damn. “You know I do.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“I admit I was wrong, in my grief, to leave the two of you and Lotor behind, but— I couldn’t forgive what that side of your family had done to mine—”

“And I’m not forgiving you either. Do you know how many times he asked for you, Allura? When he was on the brink of death.” Allura flinches, and Keith takes no satisfaction in it. “He kept asking to see you.”

The hallway is deathly silent.

“I’m sorry,” Allura finally whispers. She is white-haired and blue-eyed and small. She is Keith’s older sister again. Keith can’t hate her. He’s never hated her. 

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Keith, if you don’t seal that bond you’ll—”

“And if I do I’d be condemning Lance to an eternity he wouldn’t want,” Keith says, anew and unbending. He’s thought of this over a thousand times. He understands better than anyone. “I can’t take him from his family, Allura. His friends, his life.”

“Then what are you doing here? You know what happens to a half-bonded vampire, don’t you?”

“I’m becoming aware.”

His increasing thirst. The slow heals of his injuries. The closer he gets to Lance and the more he denies himself, the worse the side effects get. Blood mates can’t live without each other for a reason. They’re looked down upon for a reason, because it’s a liability, a weakness, especially if anyone else finds out.

Keith can either rip Lance away from his human life, or he’ll…

“Make a decision, Keith,” Allura says. “For both your sakes.”

 

.

.

.

 

The ride back to Lance’s house is quiet.

Lance is resting behind him, his arms wrapped securely around Keith’s waist, the rhythm of his heart slow and sleepy. At one of the stop lights, Keith gently pulls apart his hands and laces theirs together, Lance’s fingers fitting perfectly between the spaces. He feels Lance’s happiness lap against the shore of his chest, and he basks in it one last time.

_If you don’t seal the bond, aren’t you hurting Lance too in the process? What if he finds out you’re slowly killing yourself? I know Lance, and I know— I know how he feels about you. He’d be broken, learning what you’ve chosen to do. And Shiro. Would you really leave your brother behind?_

Lance’s front steps come into view. Keith takes his time driving up to the townhouse, slowing to a stop. Carefully, he eases Lance’s arms away, turning around to lift the helmet from his head, savoring the flicker of his blue eyes, his soft, sleepy grin.

“Thanks,” Lance says as he gets off the bike, not seeing the brokenness of Keith’s expression. He doesn’t go in right away, but instead turns back to smile at him. Keith’s breath hitches as Lance leans in, heart stuttering with Lance’s shy hesitance, before stopping completely when Lance’s lips brush along the line of his jaw, right where his foot had accidentally hit him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, happy and hopeful and so beautiful. Keith wishes he could cup that smile and keep it with him forever. He wishes there was another way. He wishes there was a future for them. Lance’s brows knit together, noticing how quiet he’s gone. “What’s wrong?”

“Lance… We can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“We can’t keep doing this.”

Like a thin blade digging through his heart, severing the arteries, Keith feels the warm happiness seep away from Lance and from himself, leaving the remains cold.

“What— What do you mean?”

“We can’t be together.” Keith inhales, making sure his next words are firm in their finality. “I have no interest in us being together. I should’ve been more clear from the beginning.”

“Was it something I did? I’m sorry, I—” Tears well in Lance’s eyes, and it takes all of Keith’s willpower not to reach out and wipe them away. To pull Lance to his chest and take back everything he just said. Embarrassment, insecurity, and above all else immense pain. It all knocks the breath from Keith’s throat.

_I do that to him. I keep hurting him._

“You told me you wanted me,” Lance says weakly.

“That was a lie.”

Those words feel like a mouthful of crushed glass, ripping his mouth and lungs to shreds. Seeing Lance’s face splinter apart, seeing him desperately try to collect the pieces — it’s a stake to his chest, brutal and unforgiving and everything he deserves for hurting the person he loves most.

“I don’t like you. I don’t want you.”

Keith almost wants to laugh at the juvenility of those words. How could his feelings be encompassed into words so small and trivial?

“I’m sorry I led you to think differently.” 

“Why— Why are you saying this? Keith—”

“I’m leaving town by the end of this week, after everything’s been dealt with. I won’t be coming back.”

Shock roils off Lance, steadily replaced by a wounded, shattered anger. The tears slip down his cheeks. The hurt is almost too much to bare.

“Are you serious? You tell me everything you’ve said to me has been a lie and break my heart, and then you just announce you’re going to skip town forever?”

His voice crumples around a sob, but Keith remains numb. He forces himself, with all his might, to remain numb. _You should’ve never done this to him. You should’ve left him in the sun._

“I can’t believe you, Keith. I can’t believe you would— god, no— this isn’t you. This isn’t you. Please tell me you wouldn’t do this to me. You wouldn’t hurt me like this.”

 _I love you._ “I’m sorry.”

“If you leave I won’t wait for you! I won’t wait for an asshole like you!”

 _I love you._ “That’s fine.”

“Keith, please…”

Lance is sobbing into the sleeves of his shirt. Lance is small and broken and alone and it’s all because of Keith.

_I love you._

“Goodnight, Lance.”

 

.

.

.

 

Allura was right. His gut had been right.

For both his and Lance’s sake, Keith should’ve never sought Lance out again in the first place. He should’ve turned a blind eye and pretended the boy he met never existed. Pretended the boy he bonded with meant nothing to him and let the connection waste away.

Instead, he tied themselves closer together, fell in love even deeper, and now he feels Lance like a phantom limb, like a missing half of his soul.

The next morning Hunk texts Keith to let him know that Lance hitched a ride when him and Pidge. Keith shuts his phone and goes to the gym to train, until even Kolivan himself has to drag his nearly-unconscious body out. He does the same thing the next day, and the next, all to drown out the pain that keeps swelling and subsiding in his chest, Lance’s emotions sharper than ever, amplifying the agony he already feels on his own.

There hasn’t been a attack since Sendak’s capture, and though Trigel’s faction is still working on an antidote, for now, both the human and vampire societies are at peace. Keith tells the Blade members stationed in the city to prepare to go back to their headquarters in Seoul. The farther the distance, surely the faster the bond will fade in strength, though it will always be there until Lance’s dying day.

In that time, Lance will move on. He’ll become a world-renowned dancer. He’ll meet the love of his life. And he will forget all about Keith. He will never think again about the man who broke his heart.

The thoughts consume him with such misery Keith slams the punching bag straight across the room, fracturing the wall on impact.

 _I want to see him again_ , he thinks, as his body is bruised and battered from nonstop exercises and simulations, until Kolivan puts him down at the end of the day. _I want to see him just one more time, please,_ sinking into fitful unconsciousness.

On the fourth morning, Keith goes back to school. He walks through the entrance, feeling like an intruder, an alien. All over the hallways, colorful banners announcing this year’s prom theme are strung up, something along the lines of _Forbidden Love_. Keith wars against himself as he delves deeper and deeper into the crowd, knowing this was a bad idea yet unable to stop..

He wanted — _needed_ — to see Lance one more time. He wanted to see Hunk and Pidge. He wanted some semblance of the normal, human life he pretended to have for those few, blissful months.

When he finally catches sight of Lance by his locker, it’s as if the world around him just fades away, until it’s only Lance. Only Keith’s light in the never-ending dark.

There’s another student with him, one of the football players. His elbow is resting against the wall, the slant of his body cocksure and demanding, and he’s leaning over him, blocking his way out.

“Sorry, I’m not going to prom this year,” Keith hears Lance say, “but thank you for asking me.” 

“Aww, seriously?” The football player leans closer, and Lance tries to back away but he can’t, trapped between the lockers and the brute. “Who are you going with then?”

“No one. I said I’m not going.”

“Why not? What’s the harm in saying yes to me?”

“I told you I’m not interested, I barely even know you, Griffin! Now if you’ll listen with your thick head and get out of my way—”

Griffin makes a move to grab him that Lance barely manages to avoid. “Come on, Méndez, I’ll show you a good time—”

“He said _no_.”

Keith doesn’t register his actions until he’s gripping the boy’s arm and giving it a sharp twist, causing him to cry out. His mind is blank as he pushes Griffin away, unconscious of the amount of force he’s using. The other students start to stare with how loud Griffin is shouting, his fellow football teammates stalking over, and Keith doesn’t snap out of it until he feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“Keith! Keith stop! He gets it!”

Lance is in front of him now, holding onto his arms, and Keith is so glad to see him. It feels like he can finally breathe again, feel whole again. He’s missed him too much.

Hunk and Pidge run over, seeing the commotion.

“Lance, are you okay?” Pidge asks, barreling into Lance and hugging him. Lance lets go of Keith, backing away until there’s purposeful space between them.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Lance pats Pidge’s head, and Hunk turns on Keith, surprise flitting across his features, carefully neutral.

“Keith, we heard from the teachers you were transferring! We thought you had already left without saying goodbye. Where have you been?”

There’s warmth in his voice, but it doesn’t conceal the wariness running underneath. It doesn’t seem like Lance has told them what happened between them, but Pidge’s frosty glare is enough. Keith hurt Lance, and abandoned them without a word, and that’s all that matters.

“Hunk, Pidge, could you leave us alone for a few minutes? I need to talk with Keith.”

“But—”

“Pidge, come on. Let them talk.”

Hunk gently ushers Pidge away, and Keith is grateful for him. He follows Lance to a more secluded part of the hallway as the last bell rings, students piling into the classrooms, leaving just the two of them.

It’s silent for some heartbeats. Lance won’t meet his eyes, and Keith doesn’t know what to say or where to begin. He thought he had only needed to see Lance. Just once. Just to make sure he’ll be okay. But now that he has, he realizes that was a lie to himself.

“Lance, I—”

It’s instinct, the way his hand reaches for him.

“Don’t touch me!”

All Lance does is step further away, out of reach, but that’s all it takes to reopen the wound anew — to drive the stake deeper and break each of Keith’s ribs wide open. Whatever remaining warmth left inside him spills out, bleeding from the fragments, and he’s never felt more cold. More hollow.

“Thank you for your help earlier, but please don’t come any closer.”

Lance’s voice is so quiet, but it’s piercing to Keith’s ears and his heart. _Don’t come any closer. Don’t hurt me any more than you already have._ Isn’t this what he wanted, though? Isn’t this for the best? To finally sever this one-way tie, to free Lance from him so that they can both move on. 

But with Lance shaking in front of him, binder clutched in his arms like a shield and eyes rimmed red with unshed tears, Keith has never loathed himself more. His fists shake against his sides, nails slicing into his palms, and every fiber in him aches to pull Lance into his chest and never let go.

“I don’t know why you’re here, but if you say we can’t be together, then stop. Please.” Lance’s voice breaks once more, like the other night, and his tears come falling. He hurriedly wipes them away with the sleeve of his sweater, angry and ashamed and so, terribly hurt. “Don’t make me hope for anything else.”

“I wanted to see you again, before I left,” Keith manages around the iron weight in his throat. _And what, beg for him back? You know you can’t do that._ He pushed Lance away. He broke Lance’s heart. He has to accept those consequences.

Lance laughs softly, humorless, knowing the same. “Well, now you have. Is that all? I have class to get to.”

Without waiting for an answer, he walks away, his shoulders strong again. Strong because he doesn’t need Keith, not like Keith needs him.

Keith stands there, in the shadow of the alcove, watching Lance’s back until he disappears, not once looking back.

It’s for the best.

It’s for the best.

 

.

.

.

 

He ends up staying in New York for a few days longer. The preparations to leave are taking longer to untangle, last minute deals being secured and the broken factions affected by the attacks still in need of help piecing themselves together.

Some days, it feels as if the thirst is burning Keith alive from the inside out. He ups his blood intake, yet every package tastes like ash and doesn’t replenish him. His body is starting to reject it, and it’s showing in the gauntness of his face, the weakness of his muscles.

His dreams are back, too. The darkness. His parents’ bodies. At night, Mari cries and cries, as if she misses Lance as much as Keith does. As if she can feel the ache that never leaves Keith’s chest, like a boulder pressed against his bones, crushing his breath.

He wonders why the side effects are hitting him so strongly now. It must be something similar to withdrawal symptoms, as if he was letting go of the sweetest, most addictive drug. He’d been in such close proximity with Lance for so long a time that now his body is no longer adapted to being without him. Can’t function until he’s completely purged of every remnant and memory of his half-formed bond. 

He’s exhausted and debilitated when he walks into Sendak’s holding cell on the day of the move to Seoul, two other Blades accompanying him in order to shackle Sendak back into his chains. The former general of Zarkon’s faction is barely conscious, stuck in limbo on the brink of death for weeks, but when he senses Keith’s presence, it’s as if the fire inside him flickers back to life, his body grappling upright despite the stake still buried into his chest.

“You’re not looking too well, Little Marmora,” Sendak greets, a certain light in his lone eye that puts Keith on edge.

“Much better than you, at least.”

“Hmm, are you so sure about that?” Sendak’s leer is delighted. “That limp in your stride says otherwise.”

Keith can’t help the flinch that slips past him. He’d been so sure he was successful at concealing every one of his injuries he’s accumulated as of late: the scars tissue on his knuckles, the bruises that are taking too long to fade. His broken leg won’t realign properly, but he’s paid careful attention to adjusting his gait, enough that no one thus far has noticed.

After Sendak’s fully chained again, Keith orders his Blade members to stand guard at the entrance of the dungeon, out of ear shot. There’s another reason for Keith’s visit, something he has to make sure of before he can leave with a peace of mind.

“If you wish to bargain for your life, here’s your final chance, Sendak,” he says, bending down so that he’s face to face with the kneeling vampire. “Tell me what you know, and don’t waste your breath on anything else.”

“And what do you think I know, Marmora brat? You’ve caught me already, the culprit of the crimes, haven’t you? What more could you want?”

“You know what I’m talking about," Keith snarls. Sendak merely smiles in response, all teeth, his gaze wild. It only furthers Keith's suspicions, and his heart pounds erratically, dread and fear spreading like frost from the back of his mind. "How did you find out? Who told you?”

“Your half-breed bodyguard told me of course," Sendak says. "Begged for his life and spilled everything.”

The dread leeches into Keith’s muscles, freezing his bones. No, that couldn’t be right. Something’s off.

“Regris would never do that.” Regris would never give up anything important to Keith, not even at the cost of his own life. 

“Would he though?" Sendak licks his teeth, his tongue inflamed and his breath rancid. He's been feeding off the rats in the dungeons. He looks more skeletal than anything living. "Humans are different when they come face to face with death. Vampires aren’t much different in that regard, especially lowly half-breeds such as—”

Keith cracks Sendak’s jaw, feeling the bone crunch. The vampire howls, panting and hissing through the pain, his mouth now useless. Keith leaves him crumpled over in the cell, ordering the Blades to drag him with the rest of the cargo as he runs through the tunnels, searching for Ulaz.

He finds him in his office, turning around to look at Keith in shock.

“Master Keith? What is it?”

“I don’t think Sendak is responsible,” Keith manages to get out, before a wave of nausea suddenly slams into him, causing him to stumble into the table to his side. Distantly, he hears Ulaz shouting, past the roar of his head, the crushing pain, as he tries to discern what just happened.

The dread he felt earlier hadn’t only been his own. It’d been—

_Lance._

Lance’s fear clangs through his head like cathedral bells, rattling his skull. Confusion, panic, terror — a cocktail of emotions so strong Keith feels dizzy from the force of them. His hand grips the corner of the table, the room spinning, his breath shuttered in gasping bursts. A second later, his phone rings.

“L-Lance?”

“ _Keith— Keith I’m—_ ”

Lance is breathing hard, his panicked voice coming through in static bursts. The phone connection keeps cutting in and out through the layers of cement. Keith is too far underground, too far away.

“I’m in Central Park— I—”

There’s crashing in the background, followed by a bone chilling growl.

“Lance?! _Lance!_ ”

The line goes dead. 

 


	13. yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAA I'm sorry this is so late and for not responding to comments last chapter!! Feel free to roast my ass alkjdnlskjfl
> 
> There's a trigger warning for assault in this one, so please stay safe when reading!! Starts at "Suddenly, he trips on uneven ground," and ends at "Any vampire could kill you."
> 
> It's been well over one crazy year since I started writing this story. Thank you guys for sticking around. I love and appreciate you more than you could know.

Lance should’ve known it was too good to be true.

The last few weeks with Keith had felt like a dream. He’d never been happier, despite the heartbreak of his botched audition at Juilliard. Keith healed him, gently and patiently, easing his anxieties and making him laugh when he thought he couldn’t. He took care of him, and Lance had never felt more safe and comfortable with anyone. 

Each memory with the unearthly boy burned like a brand in Lance’s mind. The way Keith had hugged him so fiercely. The way he said his name with so much heat and affection. Their almost kisses. Lance had started to think he was cherished. Lance had started to believe he was loved in return.

Then Keith had shattered the truth over his head with not a breath of hesitation, not a single look back. _I don’t like you. I don’t want you._ To describe how much those words hurt wouldn’t be possible. Lance had been wounded, mortified, confused. Had everything between them truly been a lie? Had every caress, every whisper of encouragement and admiration, been something Keith simply toyed with? He wouldn’t do that to Lance. He couldn’t.

Lance spent days in the aftermath parsing through what he could’ve done wrong, turning to himself to find fault. Maybe he pushed too far, asked too much of Keith he couldn’t give. Lance would’ve accepted that, been content with that, but then Keith hadn’t even wanted to remain friends with him, suddenly announcing that he was skipping town indefinitely.

“He said all those sweet things to me and then tells me the exact opposite, and on top of that he’s leaving New York?! I mean, who _does that_?!”

Lance inhales a breath, chest heaving, not realizing how wound up he got again. Beside him, Allura rubs a hand against his back, soothing him to a simmer. In the studio, the other students are chattering and warming up, none of them thankfully noticing Lance’s sudden outburst.

“Sorry,” Lance sighs, returning to his bend and flexing his calf. His anger drains from him with the motion, until he’s empty and exhausted once more. It’s been weeks. He wishes this misery, this crushing pain festering inside his chest, would end already.

“You should forget about him, Lance,” comes Allura’s voice. A shadow passes over her fine features, one that Lance has never seen before. He’s about to ask when she flits him a smile, small and sympathetic. “I mean, if he’s that inconsistent with his feelings, he’s not good for you, you know? You deserve someone better. Someone who will love you unconditionally with no restrictions or consequences.”

Lance nods mutely, acknowledging her words but not truly absorbing them. He’d tried to convince himself of the same thing after all, night after night, as he soaked through all his pillows with crocodile tears. He _does_ deserve someone will treat him like a prince; who won’t lead him around, a pup on a leash, and won’t lie to him about their feelings. _You have more dignity than that, damnit._

But every time he tried to envision this future someone, his mind only conjures the image of Keith. 

There had been a brief, wild flare of hope when Keith had returned to school out of the blue one day, but it was just as swiftly crushed. A helplessly naive part of Lance had wondered that perhaps Keith was trying to be a martyr again, leaving to protect Lance, like he wanted to in the past. But the culprit turning the vampires has been caught for over a month now, and there hasn’t been another incident since.

Keith only stood there and said that he wanted to see Lance again, whatever that meant. Maybe to ease his guilt of shattering Lance’s heart? To show Lance that he’s already moved on and Lance should too? _Stop thinking about him_. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Lifting from his stretch, Lance catches his eyes inevitably straying toward his phone for the umpteenth time. It remains silent, and this time he knows all too well where Keith is. This time, he knows Keith won’t be coming back to him.

 _Don’t leave me_ , Keith had said, his voice a warm caress against Lance’s ear. Lance scoffs, feeling the fresh burn of tears and swallowing them down viciously. _Don’t leave me_ , and yet here Lance is, the one being left behind.

Practice is a mess again, and he’s scolded more than once by Mistress Ryner. Halfway through, Coran takes pity and tells him to finish practice early for the day, ushering him gently outside the studio. Allura slips away for a moment to hug him tight.

“You’ll find love again, Lance,” she says, fervent and kind. Lance wonders briefly if she’s speaking from experience, the periwinkle blue of her eyes shaded with an awning of sadness.

Lance starts the trek back home, shivering harshly from the cold. Even for late March, the weather’s unnaturally chilly, the clouds as dark and stormy as Lance’s mood. He hates it. It makes the ache for his usual source of warmth all the more painful.

_Note to self: invest in a heavier jacket, not a two hundred year old bloodsucker who doesn’t actually give a damn about you._

He burrows into his coat like a groundhog, ignoring the sharp ache of his heart. In his pocket, his phone chirps, and when he glances down, his whole body recoils with shock.

**[Kit-Kat Keith <3]: Meet me here**

There’s a pin dropped somewhere in Central Park. Lance stares at the text and the location in dumbstruck bewilderment, wondering why Keith would abruptly contact him again. _Better question, why haven’t you blocked his number?!_ Lance berates himself and his weak heart. No, he’s determined to ignore the message. He needs a clean break, not this!

But…

What if it’s important? What if Keith actually has something to say? Lance shouldn’t give him another chance, he really shouldn’t. And yet, his feet start turning course, toward Central Park.

Lance follows the directions leading to the pinned destination, eyes glued to the arrow on the screen. He’s so focused on the path getting there that he doesn’t realize the lights receding around him, the crunch of forest leaves beneath his feet, the desolation of the area, not another soul in sight.

When he looks up, only a minute away from the pin, a chill runs down his spine. Rather than a park bench or a landmark like Lance had imagined, he’s in the middle of the forest, the darkness an impenetrable shroud. Fog, thick and opaque, rolls just below his knees, covering the ground completely. 

This couldn’t be right. Why would Keith lead him here?

There’s a rustle from behind him. A snap of a tree branch.

“Keith?”

A growl sounds, low and feral and monstrous. From the darkness, something emerges, sluicing out of the shadows.

It’s not Keith.

It’s one of the creatures Lance had seen in the subway, ashen as death and horrifically large, red eyes glowing like twin pools of blood.

_A trap._

Instantly, flight or fight takes over, and it’s not a hard choice for Lance to react to the former. He breaks into a run, heart hammering against his ribcage, the blood roaring in his ears nearly drowning out the sound of the vampire giving chase.

He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know where to run to. All around him, the forest looks the same, trunks and branches like gnarled hands reaching to consume him. The vampire is only slightly slower, his footfalls so irregular and heavy they seem drunken. Lance dumps his bag, shedding the extra weight so that he can travel faster.

They crash through the forest, and Lance wonders where everyone could be, why no one has heard all the havoc yet. He can’t outrun the monster forever.

“Help!” Lance screams, but there’s no one around.

Suddenly, he trips on the uneven ground, heart lurching as he tries to upright himself. But then the vampire is on top of him, slamming him into the earth. Hot, putrid breath bursts near his neck, rotten with the scent of decay and iron. He glimpses blood-soaked saliva, canines stained red. Nausea rolls over Lance, all-encompassing, eating away the strength of his limbs as he tries to fight it off. The vampire’s jaws clamp shut a mere centimeter away from his jugular, and a sob of terror rips from Lance’s throat.

_Do you know the difference between a vampire’s strength and a human’s?_

Dirt coats his mouth, his eyes, his ears. A clawed hand seizes his head and grinds him into the rocky earth. Pain bursts through his skull, and Lance screams, shoving at the vampire desperately, the glint of fangs gruesomely close. Something hard presses against his thigh, and the revulsion that spikes through him is almost too much to stomach.

_Any vampire could kill you._

He doesn’t want to die like this. He can’t.

In a burst of defiance, Lance shoves his knee up, and by some miracle he hits his mark. The vampire roars, death grip loosening in favor of shielding his groin. Thank god even bloodthirsty monsters have a weakness there. Quickly, Lance rolls to the side, fingers finding purchase around a heavy branch. He swings it with all his strength against the vampire’s head, the branch crunching on impact. The vampire buckles under the hit, pitching sideways, and Lance seizes the opportunity to bolt off, sprinting as fast as he can.

He needs to find help. He needs—

Whipping out his phone, Lance presses himself into the shelter of a great oak, leaning on the trunk to catch his breath as he fumbles with the contact. His hands are trembling so bad he nearly drops the phone.

“ _L-Lance?_ ”

Lance bursts into tears at the sound of Keith’s voice. “Keith! Keith I’m in Central Park! I need help! There’s a vam—”

A tree splinters and topples to his side, and all too soon, the vampire is barreling out of the darkness straight for him, eyes mad with bloodlust and jaw unhinged. Lance doesn’t even think, he just reacts, scrambling back into a run, his phone falling from his hands in the process.

_“Lance?! Lance!”_

He rips through the forest, ignoring the branches that lash at his face, eyes desperately searching for a flicker of light that would lead him out. Finally, he breaks out of the thick of trees, but the gloom is just as murky. In front of him, a lake spreads, but he can’t recognize which one it is in the darkness, the moon gone behind the clouds. On the other side, there’s a faint shimmer of street light.

There. He just has to make it there.

The water is still frozen, and there’s no sign on the shore that reads “DANGER: THIN ICE.” Maybe it’s thick enough to travel directly over it. Lance can either try or exhaust himself running around the lake, and risk getting caught in the process.

The thud of footsteps behind him spurs his decision, and the next thing he knows he’s making a dash over the lake, feet sliding dangerously against the ice. His weight should make it across, but the huge vampire’s probably won’t. He’ll have to count on that. 

Maybe it won’t even follow.

A stupid thought, Lance realizes when the vampire bursts from the line of trees as well, not even pausing in his chase as his feet crash onto the ice. Lance stops looking back. He hears the ice cracking from the weight of the vampire’s steps, too heavy and reckless and terrifyingly fast. Just a little farther out, the shore of the lake comes into view. Lance wheels his legs faster, harder, his exhaustion consumed by fear, pushing him forward.

_Almost there almost there almost there—_

The vampire grabs him by the hood, yanking him back.

The ice splits open below them. 

 

.

.

.

 

There was a certain summer Lance couldn’t remember.

Hot sand between his toes. The tang of salt breeze. The peppering of sunshine through the trees. Sometimes, the memories would come back in patches like a worn sweater, too frayed to slip into, too familiar to discard. He’d tangle the fabric of his recollection senselessly until his head was a knot, unable to stitch together anything else.

It had bothered him, obviously, to have a whole piece of his memory torn from him. And whenever he used to ask Mamá about why it was so hard to recall what he did for an entire month, she always seemed reluctant to talk about it.

“You got sick, _mijo_ , really sick. Do you remember that?”

Cold sheets now. The hiss of antiseptic. The glare of fluorescent lights. He knows he’d been with Mamá and Tea, on the other side of the country. It had been Tea’s first year of college, and while Papá and the twins had stayed at home, Lance had begged to go along.

“You wanted to send your sister off to college, but then you caught a fever halfway through the trip. The sickness was so bad it affected parts of your brain. We were really lucky the university had such great doctors.”

Amnesia. A simple explanation, yet it hadn’t settled well with him, like a spoiled meal.

Lance doesn’t know why he’s thinking of this now, as the icy water slams into him, unforgiving as a wall of concrete. The cold is so penetrative it nearly knocks him unconscious. All his muscles lock, his lungs constrict. Every nerve sears with fire, burning, burning.

Through the choke hold of panic and fear, there’s ringing inside his ears, the screech of tires. Mamá’s voice, an eldritch scream, piercing his mind and chest like a bayonet. He’s never heard her sound like that before, yet somehow he knows, marrow-deep, it’s her. 

A crash echoes above him. The water ripples — thrashing, wailing. He sinks deeper into the depths, consciousness slipping fast. The vampire has a hold of his arm, shaking him like a rag doll as water batters his nose, his throat, his lungs.

_Lance…_

_Lance!_

The hold disappears, and then he’s being dragged another way, but he can’t tell which. Suddenly, his head breaks the surface, and the change is so abrupt his whole body seizes, muscles convulsing.

He’s pulled toward shore, heels scraping ground, but he’s so disoriented that he thrashes in his new captor’s arms, sinking back into the water.

“Lance, stop, it’s me!”

“K-Keith?” 

Keith carries him onto the bank, their bodies collapsing against sand and dirt. Lance sobs as he feels strong, familiar arms surround him, heaving lake water and snot and the last dredges of fear. Keith rocks him through it, murmuring soft comforts against his temple, his body shaking just as much.

“I’m here, now. I’m here. You’re safe.”

He’s lost his coat somehow, along with his shoes. Lance can’t feel anything, the cold so consuming it’s as if he’s become a stone, robbed of all sensation. They stay like that for only a minute longer before Keith lifts him up bridal-style, and begins running at a speed that makes the air whistle.

“Lance, stay with me,” he hears Keith speak above the rush of wind. He sounds close yet faraway, like the edge of a dream.

“Keith.” It hurts to breathe. His throat feels as frozen as the underbelly of a glacier. “I’m not dead, am I? You really came.”

Keith presses his lips to Lance’s forehead, his voice raw and agonized as he whispers, “I should have never left you.”

“Damn… right…” Lance tries to flash a smile, but he feels like a corpse, his muscles too stiff. “Stupid vampire…”

He can’t keep his eyes open. He’s so tired and cold. Keith’s body is a furnace against him, but both their clothes are frozen tight against their skins. The wind slices his cheeks like daggers as Keith sprints at superhuman speed through the streets. They must be quite a sight for whoever manages to catch a glimpse of them.

Distantly, he feels Keith cup his face, tilting his jaw. 

“Lance, sweetheart, no. Keep your eyes open. Let me see them.”

 _I love it when you call me that. Fool me into thinking you love me._ It wouldn’t be so bad, to fall asleep in Keith’s arms, like he’s always wanted.

“Lance don’t you dare.”

He’s never heard Keith sound so scared. His eyelids wilt, but he fights against the darkness because Keith asked him to. Because Keith looks like he’s on the verge of breaking apart, and Lance doesn’t want to be the reason for it.

“Call me sweetheart again,” he murmurs, weak and faint.

“Sweetheart.” Keith presses their foreheads together, and his lips are a soft, butterfly brush as they pass over Lance’s, so fleeting he wonders if he imagined it.

“I won’t let you go. I promise.”

 

.

.

.

 

Somehow, they make it to Keith’s apartment without obstacle or commotion, the doorman ushering them in, guarding their backs. Keith takes the stairs, practically flying up the steps, and it’s not long before they’re in one of the bathrooms of the cavernous penthouse, white marble lit warmly with light.

Keith gently sets Lance down on the floor and gets the hot water running in the bath, his hand testing the temperature. When he’s satisfied, he strays back toward Lance, thumb brushing his cheek, coaxing him awake.

“I’m sorry,” Keith murmurs as moves down to grip the hem of Lance’s shirt. Lance can’t help the shudder that runs through him as Keith’s knuckles graze his skin, his sweater gently peeled up and over his head. Keith makes quick work of Lance’s pants and briefs as well, but not before throwing a towel over Lance’s body to cover him. Every part of Lance still feels numb to the bone, but he clasps the towel close to himself and squirms as Keith’s fingertips drag down his thighs and calves.

“I’ve thought of you undressing me, but not like this,” he babbles, lips loosening with the curls of steam, the heat of the porcelain tub pressed against his back. His head is a chunk of ice, throbbing dully, painfully, and his waterlogged brain struggles to resurface. When he finally registers what just tumbled out of his mouth, he immediately snaps it back shut, utterly mortified. 

 _Why did you say that?!_ Inner Lance wails. Even if he had intended the words as a joke to lighten the mood, he shouldn’t have— have— _exposed_ himself like that when Keith already made it clear that he had no interest back! Besides, he probably looks like a swamp toad right now, slimy with lake algae and completely undesirable.

Keith, of course, looks as handsome as ever. He remains mute, though Lance thinks he hallucinates a touch of pink on the crest of his ears.

“Do you need help getting in?” he hears Keith ask quietly above the lull of the water. At his gentle question, the flush that floods through Lance’s body is almost violent. He’s so achingly aware of how naked he is now, while Keith is still fully clothed, ice water dripping from his plastered black shirt onto the rippled marble floor. Every edge, every curve of his sculpted muscles is on display beneath the fabric.

Lance bites his lip and averts his eyes. “N-No, I’m good.”

“I’ll turn around.”

With Keith’s back facing him, Lance loosens his vice grip on the towel, dropping it in favor of the lip of the tub. He feels like a chicken as he pulls himself up. A silly, helpless baby chicken, arms wobbling and knees knocking together.

The first brush of water is scalding hot, but it’s welcoming to Lance’s skin. In the mirror, he catches a glimpse of himself — his features blanched, cheeks sunken, and lips dark blue from the cold. He sinks into the tub like a stone, sighing with relief.

Keith doesn’t turn back around, only stands up. “Vrek and Ilun are watching your family,” he says, tone indiscernible. “They’ll be protected.”

“My phone,” Lance remembers. He can’t call his parents to let them know he’s okay. He’s late coming home. They must be worried. 

“I’ll text Hunk to let him know what happened. A version of it, at least.”

Lance nods, and silence settles between them. The charged air from only minutes ago now feels awkward and uncertain. He senses rather than sees Keith leave the room, letting him soak in peace.

Gradually, Lance’s senses come back to him, the numbness thawing away. There’s a line of products on a thin ledge of the tub, and he grapples onto that familiar routine like a lifeline, washing his hair and scrubbing his skin back to rosy warmth.

The water turns gray, and Lance unplugs the drain to let it flow out almost all the way before turning the tap back on. Hot water pours down his back as he shuffles close to the stream, waiting for the bath to refill. He’s starting to prune, but his insides still feel cold. His mind keeps splitting with images of what happened, nausea rising at the memory and scent of of rotten blood.

He needs something to distract himself.

There’s a floor to ceiling window to his right, covered by a white curtain. Lance stands from the tub, wanting to open it and see the lights of the city outside.

“Lance, I brought you—”

He hears Keith walk in. Hears his breath stutter out as if he’s been punched in the diaphragm. Lance turns to see him frozen in front of the door, wearing a pair of joggers and a black t-shirt, looking freshly showered. Another set of clothes is folded over his arm. His eyes are almost comically wide as he stares slack-jawed at Lance.

It takes too long for Lance’s brain to catch on that he’s out of the water and as naked as the day he was born. 

He yelps, dunking himself back into the tub, face practically boiling with heat. Now it’s _too_ warm.

Keith still looks shell-shocked, unable to form words. Lance feels a hot furl of satisfaction bloom in his stomach, and he tries to hide his smile below the edge of the tub.

“I wanted to open the curtain,” he says shyly, peering up at Keith from below his lashes. With a jolt, Keith defrosts from his fixed stance in the doorway, the pink of his cheeks diffusing. He walks over to the window, setting the clothes down on a decorative stone stool by the tub, before pressing a nondescript button on the wall. The curtain begins to slowly lift up.

Lance watches as the city unveils itself beyond the window, a million, glittering jewels of light in a deep, endless blue. It’s as breathtaking as Lance had hoped.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his heartbeat calm again.

“You’re welcome.” Keith’s answer is gruff. Hoarse. He won’t meet Lance’s eyes.

“Did you see anything?”

“No.”

“It’s okay if you saw something,” Lance mumbles, sinking his mouth below the water. Of course, Keith hears him anyway, and when his gaze turns to Lance he can’t help the shiver that travels up his spine, despite the heat surrounding him. Keith’s eyes are so dark, two eclipsed moons, limned with red. They make Lance feel both vulnerable and invincible.

He holds Keith’s gaze with a tinge of defiance, daring him to look away first. Eventually, as if drawn by an invisible hook, those dark eyes slide down, drinking in Lance’s body beneath the swirl of steam and soap. A potent fuse of pleasure and embarrassment ignites in Lance’s gut, and his first instinct is to fold his arms and close his thighs, self-conscious beneath the intensity of Keith’s gaze. Keith catches the movement and snaps back to himself, flushing the brightest red as he stumbles back a step.

“Take your time,” he mutters, spinning on his heel. “I’ll get your room ready.”

When he passes by the tub, Lance grabs his wrist, his touch startling Keith as much as his own boldness startles himself. But he doesn’t want to see Keith leave. He’s tired of seeing Keith leaving, of his back faced toward him. Of confusing him with this swirl of overflowing feelings, constantly reaching for a boy who says he doesn’t want him, even when his actions show otherwise. 

“Could you,” Lance begins, then stops, taking a steadying breath. “Stay? Please?”

The pause that follows is excruciating, and when Keith slips his wrist out of Lance’s hold, he feels his heart splinter at the rejection. But then Keith is lacing their fingers together, and sinking down to the floor, resting his other arm over the lip of the tub. He stares straight into Lance’s eyes when Lance startles a look up.

“Okay,” he says, all softness and warmth, smile gentle. He tilts his head, eyes roaming Lance’s features from the pinch of his brows to the tip of his cupid’s bow, as if admiring a piece of art and committing him to memory. It’s so disarming, and devastating, and Lance has the overpowering urge to dunk his face into the bathwater and yell.

He compromises by sinking his lips into the water again, pressing close to the side of the tub, refusing to bend from Keith’s gaze. This is what he wanted, after all. This is what he’s missed. Only the slender porcelain separates their bodies, and Lance wishes it would disappear, so that their bodies could press close, finally connected.

They talk in hushed tones, quiet laughter, until the water turns cold.

 

.

.

.

 

When Lance pulls his head out of the collar, breath catching on the warm, clean scent of Keith, he wishes he could steal Keith’s clothes all the time and never give them back.

It reminds him of the red scarf he wore briefly, before everything changed. That moment feels so far away now, standing here in the soothing humidity of Keith’s bathroom, fumbling into a pair of his clothes.

The sweats are too baggy — Lance has to cinch the drawstring around his waist — and the sweater hangs loose around his chest. Overall, though their heights are nearly even, Keith is much broader than he is, every line of his body brutal and sensuous with finely honed strength. Lance feels his cheeks burn hot at the dizzying thought.

 _Get your head out of the gutter!_ Seriously, he almost died only a few hours earlier and all he can think of now is rubbing his face all over Keith’s unfairly defined pecs. _Hello, Lance, priorities?_

“Are you ready?”

Lance jumps a little at Keith’s silent reappearance, turning to see the vampire leaning against the frame of the door, a careful distance away. His eyes are their usual damson color again. He must’ve drank to recover his strength.

Nodding his head, Lance follows Keith closely as he leads him down the hall, turning a few times before stopping in front of what will be Lance’s room for the night. Inside, it’s a deep, calming blue, the paint on the wall tracing the silhouette of a mountain range as it rises to the top. A plush, queen-sized bed sits to the side, resembling a cloud, cashmere blankets thrown over the comforter. The ivory curtains are drawn back, revealing a spotless window much like the one in the bathroom, the city shimmering softly below the faint layer of mist.

“Rest. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

Keith’s hand lifts, cupping his cheek, and Lance leans into the scrape of rough calluses against his temple, mewling softly as they thread through his hair. The warmth of Keith’s palm is soothing, and it’s gone too soon, leaving him bereft.

“Goodnight.”

“Night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Keith crooks a smile, then walks away. Lance watches him leave the room before crawling onto the bed and diving under the covers.

Try as he might to fall asleep though, an hour passes by with only futile tossing and turning. Every time Lance closes his eyes, he sees the blood red eyes of the vampire through the trees, hears the monstrous snarl echoing in the darkness and the snap of ice below his feet.

The bed is divinely soft and warm, yet Lance feels cold. The twinkling lights outside blur in his vision. He wishes Keith were with him, holding him. 

_Maybe… I can go to him._

Slipping out of the bed, Lance pads into the rest of the penthouse, not a clue as to where Keith’s room could be. His steps whisper along the cool, oak floors, the loneliness of the apartment once more striking him. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim, and he’s not sure which room he’s entered, the furniture unfamiliar and strange in the dark.

He passes beneath a shadow, unable to see a thing, and then arms are enclosing around his waist.

“Ah!”

“Ssshh, it’s just me. What are you doing up?”

Lance breathes in deep, forest pine and spice and heat filling his nose, calming him instantly. “I— I wanted to find you. I couldn’t sleep.” Keith pulls him in close, and Lance hides himself in the shelter of his arms, tucking his nose against his collarbone. “I kept seeing… it.”

Keith is quiet, but it doesn’t make Lance feel nervous, not when he’s being held so perfectly. Fingers stroke through the soft curls of his hair, and Keith’s breath fans warm next to his cheek. Here, Lance can fall asleep, cradled against Keith’s heartbeat.

“I couldn’t sleep either.”

Lance tilts his head. “That’s cause you don’t need to,” he says, light and playful. Keith smiles a little.

“No, but I still dream. I have nightmares, too.”

“Nightmares of what?”

Keith’s eyes darken, and Lance loses his breath. He’s always loved Keith’s eyes, sweet as summer damson and clear as an autumn night.

“Losing you. Hurting you.” Keith leans their foreheads together, lids falling shut. “I’m sorry for everything I said to you before. I’m sorry for causing you pain, for putting you in danger.”

“Hey, it’s— it’s okay.” Lance nudges his nose, nuzzling ever so slightly. He never wants to hear Keith sound so hurt, so full of regret. “I’m okay, thanks to you. You were only trying to protect me, right? In your own dumb way.”

Keith laughs, warm and beautiful and broken. “Yeah, I am really dumb, to think I could ever stop myself from loving you.”

For several heartbeats, his words don't sink in. Then Lance pushes back, eyes wide as he looks at Keith.  

“I love you, Lance. I love you so much it terrifies me, consumes me, ruins me. But I can't imagine a world without knowing what it means to love you and only you. I can't imagine a life apart from you." 

“Then stop running away from me." Tears well in Lance's eyes, feeling a surge of love so strong it threatens to shatter him. "Be with me. I've been yours since the beginning.”

Keith holds his gaze for another breathless, fragile beat, and then they're moving at the same time, Lance lifting just a touch on his toes and Keith leaning down to meet him. His lips are soft, softer than Lance could've imagined, but the rough desperation behind the kiss breaks and rebuilds him anew, turning him molten. Lance arches in, reveling in Keith's strength, his fire, craving more. Needing more.

_I can't imagine a world without you either. I can't imagine never meeting you, laughing with you, loving you._

“Keith,” he sighs in-between their kisses, languid and burning. “I don’t want to be alone.” His tongue drags hotly against Keith’s, pleasure sparking from crown to toe, his whole body alight. “Sleep with me.”

At his request, Keith groans almost savagely, the rumble of sound taking root in Lance’s gut, flowering lush. Broad hands knead into his bare waist, caressing the wings of his back, every bump of his ribs. Then, he’s lifted off the ground into Keith’s strong arms, held steady and safe.

Lance wraps his legs around Keith’s waist as he’s carried out of the living room, relishing the bruising grip on his thighs. Keith’s mouth won’t leave his, his kisses deep, scorching, making Lance’s toes curl and his fingers clench. They keep stumbling into pieces of furniture along the way, and the irritated growls that rise from Keith’s throat tremble against Lance’s lips, stretched in a smile so wide his cheeks throb.

“If you can, mmm, stop kissing me—” Keith knocks straight into a chair and curses a colorful expletive. Lance giggles, muffling the sound against Keith’s neck. “Maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

Keith doesn’t deign him a response but rather a nip to his ear and a kiss to the crest of his jaw. He seems reluctant to leave Lance’s mouth unattended, but his steps are no longer interrupted for the rest of the way.

Lance feels himself being gently lowered back onto the bed, Keith’s weight pressing him down. Then all coherent thought is lost as Keith gently bites his lips and licks into his mouth. 

“How long have you wanted to kiss me?” Lance asks when their kisses slow, Keith’s thumb pressed to the swell of his bottom lip, his touch and gaze full of tenderness and reverence. How could he look at Lance like that? What does he see? Can he feel the same in Lance's gaze, how much of that love is reflected back?

“Since the first time I met you.”

“Wow, you fell for me at first sight?” Lance waggles his brows, belying the soar of his heart. He didn't think it could be possible to feel this happy.

“Of course.”

“I punched you, though. Called you a stalker.”

Keith blinks, as if suddenly remembering the moment. Lance frowns ever so slightly. Was that not the first time they met? Maybe Keith meant when he first arrived at school…

“Part of your charm,” Keith answers, easy and smooth. Lance lets out an embarrassing snort, and Keith rolls over onto his side, pulling the covers around them, tangling their legs together. He threads their fingers once more and drops chaste kisses to the back of Lance's hand, tracing the curvature of his wrist, the tip of his fang grazing the inside. Lance gasps, shivering from the thrill and heat pulsing low, anticipating the bite. But then Keith shifts away, leaving Lance's skin cold and bare. 

He can't help the disappointment that rises within his chest, stronger than he expected.  

“Why won’t you drink from me?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Matt told me that your brother does.”

Keith's astonished gape is almost funny, his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. Finally, he says, “This is... different, Lance. We’re different." Lance is about to protest when Keith presses another kiss, an unfair distraction that works awfully well. "I can’t explain to you why, not yet," he swallows the whimper from Lance's throat, quieting every protest, "but… I promise I won’t leave you again. So please, trust me.”

When they look at each other, Lance can see the raw sincerity in Keith's eyes, the utter devotion that burns and gleams and warms him through. He does trust Keith, with all his heart. He can wait a little longer for answers, until he's ready. 

“Okay, I’ll trust you. On one condition.”

“Anything,” Keith says instantly. Lance smiles, his heart full to burst. 

“Kiss me again.”

Keith does, his smile just as bright, and the darkness recedes, leaving only the light of Keith’s touch.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I made everyone wait over a year for these two fools to finally kiss each other LMAO. I hope it was worth the wait!


End file.
